


The Red Arrow Affair

by diadema



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 2018 Summer Solstice Gift Exchange, F/M, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Pre-Relationship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-05-21 16:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14918478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: The team's latest mission takes them on the famous Red Arrow, an overnight express train that runs from Moscow to St. Petersburg. Along the way, they encounter old friends and new enemies... though the lines between the two are more blurred than they realize.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MilkshakeKate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkshakeKate/gifts).



> For the incomparable MilkshakeKate, a hero and inspiration to us all.

 

_Mission Report: November 07, 1963. Moscow, USSR._

The words race on a closed track in his mind, each syllable corresponding to his footfall on the stairs. His nails are biting into the manila folder, broad hands threatening to crush the pages within. _Good,_ he huffs. _Let them._

There is nothing of value in the file anyway—not for UNCLE, not even for the KGB. But that had never been the intent. No. It is not what is within the report that matters. It is the fact that such a document has even been allowed to exist. For it proves beyond a shadow of a doubt who _truly_ has control over Illya Kuryakin.

He nearly misses a step in his haste to get this over with. A guttural curse rings through the empty stairwell as he catches himself. Illya shakes his head at his clumsiness, at the hissing static of the nerves in his chest. He is racked with a schoolboy’s shame and the reflexive flinch of discovery, the discipline he expects to follow.

Illya’s handler had recalled him unexpectedly three weeks ago with nauseatingly cryptic instructions: _take the first flight to Moscow._ It didn’t matter that he was on another mission. He had no choice but to comply.

A good dog always runs at his master’s call.

Illya is well-acquainted with his agency’s mind games—the tests of his obedience, the questioning of his loyalty, but this had been something different. More than suspicion, this was _spite._ He had been made to wait ten days before he’d received his next assignment.

Ten days in the dark, without contact to either agency. Ten days flooded with guilt and worry over the unfinished mission in Peru, the partners he had left behind.

Ten days to find out that all that was needed from him was his presence.

There would be no ounce of skill involved. No special clearance. Illya was simply there to be a body. Just _one more_ soldier on parade.

Almost instinctively, he falls into a marching cadence as he continues his descent. His chest is tight. His mind is reeling. The glowing coals of his anger have been rekindled and they seem to blister him, brand him with the disgrace of it.

He cannot rail against his superiors, so he drives the pain and fury inward. It is not as if he is undeserving of it. Illya had abandoned Gaby and Cowboy, left them alone and in a circumstance.

All because the KGB had wanted to teach him a lesson.

As the days have grown shorter, a darkness has been encroaching, steadily and stealthily, upon the agencies. Diplomatic relations have cooled in the wake of ever-lengthening shadows and pernicious frost… and have shown precious few signs of thawing.

UNCLE may have managed to survive into the Fall, but Illya knows only too well that Russian winters are as long as they are treacherous. His days here have always been numbered, and yet, now, more than ever, he finds himself dreaming of spring and the golden days of summer beyond.

The blood rushes back to his fingers in hot, angry spurts as Illya flexes his hands, finally loosening his grip. He glares at the offending paperwork. It had sat on his desk for a week before he could bring himself to do it.

 _How unlike him,_ he thinks, _to put it off so long._

Waverly had assured him, of course, that it wasn’t necessary. In fact, he had asked Illya no questions other than to inquire as to the state of his health and to see if there were anything further he could do for him. It was a humbling homecoming—one that he couldn’t afford to believe in.

Illya had insisted on filing his mission report, and so, the forms had appeared in his in-box the next morning… and remained there, untouched and mocking, in an office that suddenly seemed too large and too _quiet_ without his teammates.

How often had he chastised them both for their clutter, their volume, any of a thousand distractions they could conjure at a moment’s notice? It wasn’t until Illya had stared mournfully out at their empty workstations that he realized he’d grown accustomed to it.

His partners were due back in headquarters any day now. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t looking forward to seeing them again.

Another, to say he also didn’t dread it.

Guilt plucks at his insides like a harp: a familiar melody, well-worn like the records in Gaby’s apartment. His hand slips over the doorknob at the thought, and he grouses in frustration. Illya exhales sharply through his nose, throws open the heavy door with a resounding, satisfying _bang._

The Archive, as always, is disorientingly bright after the shadowy trek to the basement. All Illya registers at first is movement: a dark head snapping up, the graceful arc of a ponytail, a pistol brought to bear.

_Gaby._

She is kneeling on the carpet, stacks of papers laid out in a neat semicircle around her. A sight for sore eyes, though Illya feels raw from it all the same. Her absence had left a dull, persistent ache in his chest; seeing her now sparks every exposed nerve ending inside of him.

Illya sees the tension leave her shoulders as she takes him in, feels his own begin to relax in response. He takes a deep breath to steady himself as her gaze flicks over him. The gun is tucked away, the back of her skirt smoothed as Gaby pushes to her feet.

There is an odd note to her voice when she greets him. She picks her way over to him, and he realizes, distantly, that he is still standing in the doorway. Still staring, still _gaping_ at the mechanic. Illya knows he should move, but his feet won’t cooperate any more than his eyes will.

He is utterly transfixed by the sight of her.

There is a heat, a _hunger_ in his eyes, and Illya can only hope it looks more professional than it feels. Gaby comes to a stop before him, just out of arm’s reach—a deliberate tease, he wonders, or a friendly distance strained in light of recent events.

He wants to ask, wants to _beg._ For mercy or forgiveness. For permission to pull her against him, press her up against the wall. But then she tilts her head to the side, appraising him, and Illya loses all sense.

“Aren’t you going to welcome me back?” she asks.

Illya tears his gaze from the line of her neck, from the curve of her jaw, and meets her eyes with a start. “I was… of course.” He shakes his head at his own uselessness. “Welcome back.”

“I heard you marched in a parade,” she says, turning on her heel and heading back to her filing. Illya hesitantly takes it as an invitation to follow. When Gaby bends to retrieve the documents, he is sure to train his gaze on the ceiling.

She inclines her chin at the folder in his hands. “Is that your mission report?’

_“Da.”_

“Are there any pictures?”

Illya frowns deeply at that, but surrenders the file for her inspection anyway. The mechanic tsks softly at the creases left by his fingers, smooths over them with a gentle touch. His stomach twists sharply as she sets the folder on a nearby table, braces her hands on either side.

She hums when she finds it: a close-up of Khrushchev with Illya framed perfectly over his shoulder. Her index finger lazily traces the scar by his eye before Gaby looks up at him again. “I’ve never seen you in uniform before.”

Illya clears his throat, chokes on a reflexive apology. He knows what it represents to her. To her people. “Is ceremonial attire,” he finally says when the silence drags on too long, and he’s spent too much time imagining her touch—not on the page, this time, but on his skin instead. “For special occasions. Celebrations. Like October Revolution.”

“That explains why you look so grim.” There is something inexplicably like a _grin_ tugging at the mechanic’s lips. “Celebrating the Russian way is _very_ serious work.”

Illya blinks, startled and more than a bit distrustful at this turn of events. He never knows when to expect a trick with her. “You’re not angry?”

A moment passes as Gaby considers this, dark eyes searching and as fathomless as ever. “Not at you,” she says, then shrugs. “We wrapped up the mission, the Soviets got their poster boy for the big parade… and you came back. Everyone wins.”

He isn’t sure, but Illya thinks he stops breathing. By the time his brain catches up to his pulse, the German woman has already tucked the picture away and offered him the folder. The graze of her fingers against his is enough to send his faculties back another several paces.

If Illya were in his right mind, he might think better of the impulse that grips him just then. He might think things through, plan ahead, make sure he has a proper command of the English language.

What he _wants_ to do in that moment is ask Gaby out. Invite her to get coffee, perhaps. To have her tell him all about Peru and the other missions he’d missed. More than that, Illya wants to hear how she had filled her time outside of the office, to learn _who she is_ off the clock, if only she would let him.

He’s seen Cowboy do this a thousand times with a thousand, different women. All it took was a charming smile, a playful remark, and soon enough, the two were setting a time and place. To borrow the American’s phrase, this should then be a piece of pie _. Or was it cake?_

It did not matter. He could handle this.

Illya plans to say something clever, something light and teasing about how Gaby looks like she could use a pick-me-up. What he says instead is…

“There are bags under your eyes.”

He stares a little too intently at her face, too caught up in how her nose scrunches and her eyes go wide to recognize the danger. If Illya Kuryakin were a smart man, he would stop talking.

He is _not_ a smart man.

“Why have you not slept?” he demands, taking another step towards her. Common sense gives way to concern as all pretense and possibility scatters. The moment is gone, and so is this tentative, blossoming truce. He should have known better than to believe it could last.

Gaby’s bangs flutter with the force of her exhale, the annoyed huff he’s _certain_ he’ll pay for later. She sets her hands on her hips, that beautiful mouth of hers flattening into a thin line. Before she can mete out justice, however, Solo peeks his head into the room with his usual knack for interruptions.

“Thought I might find you two down here. Hope I’m not interrupting any clandestine encounters.” His blue eyes falter imperceptibly over the tension he senses between them. Reading or misreading the situation, Illya doesn’t know. Doesn’t particularly _care_ either.

He drags a rough, shaking hand over his face and sighs. “What do you want, Cowboy?”

“An audience with the king,” he announces. He grins at his partner’s startled expressions. “Five minutes.”

Beside him, Illya can feel Gaby go still. “A new mission?”

“I’d imagine so.” Solo’s gaze skims over the mechanic, no doubt seeing what Illya had a moment earlier. _How long has it been,_ he wonders, _since_ he _had seen her last?_

The American offers her his most disarming smile. “Say, Miss Teller, it looks like you could use a drink.”

“And I don’t mean coffee,” she quips. Gaby grabs the man’s wrist, twisting to read his watch. Illya’s stomach lurches as he observes this exchange. Not for the first time does he envy their ease with one another. “Come on, Solo. We’ve got to hurry if we want to get to Waverly on time."

His roguish wink has Illya rolling his eyes on instinct. “I can be quick when I want to be.” Solo glances over at him, a slight crease forming between his brows. A pricking of his conscience, perhaps. “Care to join us, Peril?”

“Illya has some paperwork he needs to file,” Gaby says briskly, effectively putting an end to _that_ discussion. “He’ll catch up with us later.”

Solo ducks his head in acknowledgement, hands raised in supplication. He spares Illya one final, pitying look before bowing the mechanic out of the room. The door closes, not with a bang, as he expects but with a whimper: a pathetic, little click that seals his fate. Seals him in the Archive like a stone over a tomb.

 

* * *

 

Gaby sweeps into Waverly’s office with all the airs and graces of visiting royalty. With head held high and Solo waiting on her hand and foot, she eases into the proffered chair and accepts the still-steaming cup of coffee with a gracious smile. She even _deigns_ to acknowledge her superior with a nod.

It takes her a moment before she realizes that Illya isn’t there, that her performance is without its intended audience. The indignity of it all causes her cold shoulder to waver ever so slightly. Illya is _always_ there. Always early, always dominating the space with his size and his presence. How _dare_ he make himself scarce when she wants to ignore him?

The room seems off-kilter somehow without his shadow at her back. Gaby sets her jaw, prods at her bruised ego so as not to soften at the realization. She summons all the steel she can to her spine, recalling Illya’s scrutiny, the scalding intensity of his gaze. The conflicting desire and concern that seemed to be behind it.

So she _hadn’t_ been sleeping well. What else was new?

Gaby wraps both hands tighter around the too hot cup and tries to avoid thinking about just _why_ her insomnia had worsened over the past month. It was better that way.

A polite cough from her American partner startles her from her sudden, sullen reverie. Gaby blinks, looks guiltily up at Waverly. “I’m sorry, sir. Did you say something?”

“Yes. I asked you about your Russian.”

“My… Russian?” she repeats. Confusion furrows her brows, even as her pulse spikes sharply. Traitorously. “You mean Illya?”

“Your Russian _language,”_ he clarifies. “How do you feel you’ve been getting on with your studies?”

_Oh._

“Oh,” she says softly. There is a furnace underneath her skin, causing her cheeks to glow scarlet with embarrassment. She wants to crawl under Waverly’s desk and hide, maybe relocate to a remote village in the Andes. _Anything_ but this polite, expectant silence.

Gaby tucks a stray curl behind her ear, wets her dry lips. “I—I speak better than I underst—”

“She is proficient,” a deep voice rumbles behind her. A slight, careful pause, then, “She has been working very hard.”

Gaby nearly spills her coffee as she jerks her head to the side and then up, up, up. She wonders when Illya had arrived, how much of their conversation he had just overheard. Wonders if she… minds if he did.

She lets her gaze ghost over him for a fraction of a second—just enough to notice the reddened tips of his ears, the quick flexing of his fingers. Illya studiously avoids her eye, and remembering her resolve to ignore him, Gaby is swift to return the favor.

Beside her, Solo sips demurely from his cup… as if he _hadn’t_ nearly choked on his drink a moment earlier. She wants to glare at him, to grudge him for it, but then their superior is speaking again.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” he says, handing them each a train ticket. “Because you’re about to put it to good use.”

Gaby’s stomach drops on a silent gasp. Her eyes scan the neat Cyrillic lettering with something like disbelief. “We’re going to Russia.”

It’s not a question, but _God,_ she wishes it were.

Gaby doesn’t miss the small, encouraging nod Waverly gives her before he speaks. “The train leaves five minutes til midnight from the Leningradsky station in Moscow and arrives in St. Petersburg eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Fingers steepled and expression grim, the Englishman leans forward in his seat. “As you may have guessed by now, we have a very limited window for this assignment.”

“And what would that be, sir?” Solo asks.

“A personal favor to Khrushchev. Even _I_ don’t have all the details.”

The American’s frown mirrors Gaby’s own as a sense of foreboding permeates the room. If she were feeling uneasy a moment ago, she is nearly vibrating with panic now. Her coffee sloshes against the walls of her cup before Illya shifts closer to her, as if it is somehow second nature for him to do so. A large hand settles on the back of her chair, its fingertips a mere _whisper_ against her shoulder, and Gaby finally releases the breath she’s been holding.

Gratitude surges through her, overtaking all of the anger and shock and chaos that his absence, his _return_ has brought with him. _How could she be upset with him?_ In spite of the way she has treated him this morning, Illya is still here for her now. Like he always is.

It humbles her.

Illya’s presence, so steady and sure behind her, is a tonic for her nerves, calming her enough to focus. She catches the tail-end of the American’s sentence, but the message is more than clear. _They’re flying into this mission blind._

“Not exactly,” their superior assures them. “The KGB’s playing this one close to the vest, Solo, but the information _is_ coming.” Gaby watches as Waverly and Illya exchange a look. An understanding, as well. “The drop is in an hour.”

Their superior stands to dismiss them then with a pointed glance at his watch. “Better get packing, chaps. I do believe you have a plane to catch.”

Illya withdraws his hand from her chair, and Gaby feels the loss acutely. Not just of his touch, but of the strength it had imbued her with. The mechanic fiddles with her coffee, her purse, stalling until the other agents take the hint.

“The _Krasnaya Strela,_ huh?” she hears Solo say as the men head towards the door. “You know, I’ve always wanted to ride the famous ‘Red Arrow’ train. Now, _you’ve_ ridden it before, haven’t you, Peril?”

Without turning to look. Gaby can picture Illya’s curt nod, the muscle flexing in his jaw. Maybe even the slightest tremor in his hand. His voice is guarded, as it always is, whenever his time in Russia is brought up. “A few times.”

“You must be an expert.”

Illya’s response is muffled by the door’s closing. Gaby slowly lifts her head, heart hammering in her throat, as she looks at the Englishman. “Is it—” she shakes her head and starts over. “Is it truly necessary for me to go, sir?”

Waverly gives her a sad, little smile in return. “I wouldn’t send you otherwise, Miss Teller.” He drums his fingers on the desktop, as if considering whether to elaborate or not. He does. “I must confess that I have something of an ulterior motive in taking on this mission, shrouded in secrecy though it is.”

She waits.

“This assignment not only puts us back in Khrushchev’s good graces, it also puts us in a prime position to bargain with the KGB. To keep our team together for a little while longer. And for _that,_ I need my best men _and my best woman_ on the job.”

 

* * *

 

“Listening at doors again, Peril? Eavesdropping is a nasty habit. Even for a spy.”

Illya whips around to glare at his partner. The American leans against the wall opposite Waverly’s office, smirking knowingly into his coffee.

“I was waiting for Gaby,” he says stiffly.

“I don’t doubt it. But is there a _reason_ you have your ear pressed to the door?”

Illya scowls. Cornered like this, his best option is to come clean. He sighs. “My name came up.”

“Waverly wanted to know more about Gaby’s Russian?”

Heat flares in his chest, his cheeks, but Illya refuses to acknowledge it. There’ll be time enough for that later. “He mentioned KGB. How this mission could help extend my contract here.”

Solo nods. Something _suspiciously_ like sincerity creeps into the man’s words. “All the more reason to ensure this goes according to plan.”

There’s a shade of humor in the grimace Illya gives him. “Since when do our missions ever go according to plan?”

 

* * *

 

Illya tucks his coat even tighter around his waist and resists the urge to growl. The prearranged dropsite has been something of a dead end. Just one more layer of cloak and dagger to an already unsettling mission. All that had been left for him here were instructions to wait.

So, he does.

Illya sits, poised and alert, on a weathered bench in a secluded corner of the park. He may be exposed to the elements, caught in the crosshairs of a bitter, wintry chill, but his position is a strategic one. From this vantage point, he has clear sightlines to anyone who comes and goes—not that there _has_ been anyone.

The minutes tick past until Illya’s fingers feel clumsy with the cold. He fumbles with his newspaper, his breath steaming in short, irritated bursts that obscure the tiny black-and-white print. He grits out a few, choice words when the pages seem to stick together.

With a little finesse and a lot of frustration, Illya manages to separate them. His eyes widen as he takes in the coded message: _1700, black cab._ The intersection right behind him.

He glances over his shoulder and sees the car: a shadowy outline against the haze of streetlamps. The headlights flick on in acknowledgement as Illya gets to his feet and starts walking.

* * *

 

“Going to the airport, _tovarishch?”_

Illya replies in the affirmative, his eyes never once leaving the other agent. His words take on a sharp, clipped tone. “Do you have it?”

Wiry fingers close over the handle of an attache case. “You understand the need for secrecy, of course,” the man says, shrugging. He bares his teeth in a pseudo-smile, a hardness to the gaze he now locks onto Illya. “We can’t have just _any_ agent getting a hold of this.”

And then, because he must, he nods. “I understand.”

“You will receive no help from the KGB. No friends, no favors. _No contact.”_ The man presses the case into Illya’s hands, all trace of politeness gone from his voice. _“Burn everything when you are done.”_

 

* * *

 

Illya’s composure is steel and ice by the time he steps out of the cab, but something inside him eases at the sight of his partners: an island of stillness, marooned amid the hustle and bustle of the airport. He nods at them in greeting when he approaches and lets Cowboy lead the way.

The American remains a few, careful paces ahead, leaving Gaby and Illya to walk alongside one another. It is a very public sort of privacy. The rise and fall of conversations is a perfect mask for their own. There are no prying eyes or straining ears.

Nothing, in fact, to stop Illya at all.  
Except for Gaby.

The mechanic stares resolutely in front of her, a dusting of color high on her cheeks. They seemed to have parted on good terms outside of Waverly’s office, but Illya wonders now if she might still be angry with him.

He opens his mouth to apologize: an entire speech prepared to clear up the misunderstanding, _and,_ if he may be so bold, to make it up to her when they return to London. But then he notes the tension in her jaw, the white line of her knuckles on the suitcase handle, and realizes with a jolt that it’s not anger that she’s feeling.

It’s fear.

And so, Illya does the only thing he _can_ do in that moment. He takes Gaby’s luggage from her and keeps his mouth shut.

* * *

 

It’s been twenty minutes since their private plane took off. Nearly _thirty_ since Gaby has spoken. Her eyes rove restlessly over the same rectangle of sodden, gray sky—hyper-vigilant and constantly darting around. Her feet tap an agitated tattoo: a frantic, manic beat that has his own heart rate kicking up in response.

She reminds Illya of a child’s toy. _Like jack-in-the-box,_ he decides. Drawn into herself like a coiled spring, a pent-up, almost _violent_ force ready to launch at a moment’s notice. With or without any warning.

Illya frowns as he looks her over. Gaby’s hands must be aching from clutching the armrests so tightly, and he wants desperately to soothe them. But would she permit such an intimacy from him? This is more than a touch ghosting on the back of a chair. This is more _,_ so much more, and Illya _cannot afford_ another misstep.

He folds his arms instead, tamping down the impulse, the _instinct_ that threatens to overtake him. _Let Cowboy handle it,_ he thinks bitterly. _Somehow_ he _always seems to know the right thing to say and do._

The man in question is lounging in the seat across from him, his expression brimming with his usual degree of insouciance. Only his eyes give him away: stopping on Gaby just a second too long to be indifferent. Solo is as concerned as Illya is, but unlike the Russian, he’s able to compartmentalize it, to lock it away in a safe deep inside himself.

Illya should—no, _needs_ to do the same. They are on a mission, after all.

As if reading his mind, the American leans forward, subtly raising his voice to try and draw Gaby back in. “All right, Peril. You’ve kept us in suspense long enough. Let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”

Illya grunts in acknowledgement. He bends to unlatch the case at his feet, lays the folders on the table between them. They’re thin. _Too_ thin.

Something’s wrong.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Solo demands. He points to the offending bag. “Check it again. There has to be a hidden compartment somewhere.”

A muscle flexes in his jaw as he shrugs. A brittle, token gesture. “This is all there is, Cowboy.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Is dead end,” he finally snaps, all but shoving the case at his partner, “but _please,_ be my guest.”

Gaby finally tears her gaze from the window to look at them. Her voice has a distinctly distant quality to it that matches the look in her eyes. “What’s going on?”

“It would seem that for a communist intelligence agency, the KGB are, ironically, not very good at sharing.” Resigned to the fact that the attache truly _is_ empty, he passes out the three, anemic folders. “Some _light_ reading for you both.”

Illya glares daggers at the American and then at the file before him. Anger and an inexplicable shame surges through his chest as he opens it. The only intelligence that the agency, _his_ agency, had provided was a grainy photo and a single sheet of paper.

 _Were they_ deliberately _trying to sabotage them?_

The mechanic comes to the realization a split-second before he does. “They’re different,” she says. Her voice is no longer small and dreamlike, but sharp and piercing. “Each folder is different.”

 _That_ seems to pique Solo’s interest. The man straightens in his seat, plastering on an irritating, little grin. “Looks like we’re playing at ‘Show and Tell’ then. Now, who wants to go first?”

 

* * *

 

Gaby casts a quick glance between her partners before volunteering. “I’ll go.”

The men stare at her in surprise, but she shrugs it off, brusque and more than a little bit defensive. She needs to pull herself together, prove herself on this mission.

Her time with Illya depends on it.

“Schematics for the train,” she announces, spreading the file flat on the table. “Looks like we’re all staying in separate berths.” She taps her finger on a hand-drawn star. “There’s a fourth one marked here too. Either of you know who it’s for?”

Illya clears his throat and shows her his own folder. A young woman with light eyes and dark hair stares morosely up at her. “Zofie Vackova. The Czechoslovakian ambassador’s daughter.”

That earns an appreciative hum from Solo. “And what is our interest in her? Besides the obvious, of course,” he adds with a wink at Gaby.

She rolls her eyes at him, but there is a smile tugging at her lips just the same. Across from her, Solo is practically preening at this tiny victory. Gaby ignores him, turns her attention back to Illya instead.

She has to crane her neck to read the sheet of paper he now slides in front of them. Illya’s voice, she notices, is deliberately flat. “It says she is courier. For sensitive intelligence.”

“Are we supposed to apprehend her?” she asks. “Stop her from selling the files?”

Illya shakes his head slowly. “They want us to protect her, I think.” His blue eyes are troubled when they lift to meet hers. “I do not know yet from whom.”

“I do believe _I_ have the answer to that,” Solo declares, and it is as if spotlights are suddenly beaming down upon him. He flips his folder to face them in a measured, dramatic reveal. “Looks like we’re dealing with one of yours, Peril."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been fully written and updates will be coming soon! A huge thank you to Somedeepmystery and Festiveviolet31 for all of their love, support, and invaluable input. :D
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy. <3


	2. Chapter 2

The silence hangs heavily between them, eloquent in its oppressiveness. It is all the answer Cowboy needs. “I take it the two of you know each other.”’

A moment passes before Illya even registers the words. He is struck dumb by the photograph before him, transfixed by a familiar set of eyes: grayscale on the page, but which he knows to be flecked with shifting shades of blue and green in the light.

Eventually, he recovers from his shock. He nods. “I recruited Yulia many years ago. We were… partners. _Not like that,”_ he feels compelled to add when Solo’s face lights up. “We worked off and on together. Nothing more.”

“And what exactly happened to bring this _partnership_ into the past tense?”

“She was reassigned,” he answers gruffly. “Outside of Iron Curtain.”

“In the West, you mean.” Gaby looks up at him for confirmation, but he avoids her eye, jams his hands into his pockets. “Was she a sleeper?”

“She was… transient,” Illya says, choosing his words with care. “Not meant to establish herself in any one place, but to gather intelligence, then move on.”

The American frowns. “So, not your average resident spy then, either.”

 _“Da.”_ He notes the mechanic’s confusion and sighs. “Yulia was what Cowboy would call a ‘non-official cover’. She did not have direct ties to Russian embassy or KGB.’

“Meaning she had no diplomatic immunity,” his partner adds, “and her name certainly wasn’t advertised on the payroll. She was a _nelgal’nye rezidenty—_ whether her papers were in order or not.”

Gaby gives a short hum as she absorbs this information. “Do you know what her mission was? Or is it classified?”

Illya’s voice is deliberately flat as he responds. The empty, robotic compliance of a good soldier. “She was sent to investigate rumors of an international criminal organization,” he says softly. “Almost four years ago.”

“That was before the Vinciguerras.” Her head snaps up, staring at him and Solo with wide, startled eyes. “Before my father went missing.”

Illya clenches and unclenches his fists on instinct. His throat works as he tries to keep his emotions under control. “I did not know then what she was doing. Where she had gone.”

“You didn’t try to… track her?” Gaby asks. There’s an odd tightness in her voice, one that pinches at his own heartstrings. He wishes, desperately, to know what she is thinking, to reassure her that Rome was different. That it was special. Sacred even.

That it was _theirs._

But how could he?

For to do so would be a dangerous presumption. It would be to shine a spotlight on this sweet, shadowy uncertainty, to call into question all that is better left unanswered, and to put a name, a face, a _voice_ to this unspoken thing between them.

Illya settles for shaking his head instead. His tongue is too thick, too treacherous to respond any other way. He retreats behind a wall of ice, a solid wall of professionalism, as the American airs his own grievances.

“And even when this all came to light, you didn’t think to tell Waverly or either of _us_ about it?”

“It would not have mattered,” he says stiffly.

Solo arches an eyebrow at him, completely unimpressed with this deflection. “Because her involvement would have been considered _redundant_ with you already on the job?”

“Because she is dead.” His eyes are trained, unseeing, on the table. “Yulia Ivanovna Vishneva was declared ‘Killed In Action’ in February.”

The silence creeps in again with cold, grasping fingers. Only the mechanic is willing to brave it. “And yet, here she is,” Gaby muses, studying the file with a soft, troubled gaze, “back from the grave.”

Beneath her fingertips lies all the proof of life he needs. Illya hums for lack of a better response. He smooths a shaking hand down his thigh to try and still the tapping. “They suspect she is double agent?”

He phrases it as a question, but he already knows the answer. Illya’s insides twist regardless to hear it spoken out loud. Cowboy shrugs with guarded indifference. _“Someone_ in your agency seems to think so.”

“And this… Yulia is going after our ambassador’s daughter,” Gaby says slowly. Her head falls back against the seat with a muted thud. “In _Russia._ Where she could easily be recognized?”

Illya grunts. That has been bothering him too. “She must be desperate.”

“Oh, well,” Solo adds on a yawn. “I hope whatever’s in those files is worth dying for.”

“We’re not taking her alive.” Gaby looks between the two men. Her voice is sharp with surprise, but Illya can hear the worry underneath. “That doesn’t sound like Waverly.”

“We are working for KGB on this. Not UNCLE,” he tells her. He doesn’t quite manage to iron the emotions out of his words. He’s more affected by this than he’d like either of his partners to know. “We have to follow their orders.”

The folder is tossed aside with a lazy flick of Cowboy’s wrist. “So, the plan, as I understand it, is that the two of you will find and eliminate our double agent, while _I_ seduce the ambassador’s daughter.”

“There is _nothing_ in here to suggest a seduction,” he snaps.

A long-suffering, almost _pitying_ sigh follows this pronouncement. “The train leaves at midnight, Peril, and I need to get intimate access to Zophie and the files she’s purported to be carrying. What other way to do this than for me to. Get. Intimate. Access. To. Zophie?”

Illya scowls darkly at him. “You can pick the lock to her compartment.”

“There’s a security latch,” he explains. “It can’t be released from the outside. Not even by me.”

“Gaby could befriend her.”

“And maybe while they’re braiding each other’s hair and discussing that devilishly handsome foreigner onboard—” Solo points to himself, in case the implication hadn’t been blatantly obvious, “—she’ll take her into her girlish confidence and reveal _everything.”_

The mechanic snorts indelicately. “Let him do it his way, Illya. Besides, an American man spending the night in Zophie’s room will be much less suspicious than if an _Ossi_ woman were to.”

Illya grinds his teeth together, but he can’t argue with her. Solo takes his silence as a tacit endorsement of his plan. He beams at Gaby before pushing to his feet. “I need to have a quick word with our pilot. You two won’t mind a bit of alone time together, would you?”

And with that dazzling, self-satisfied grin of his, the Cowboy leaves to give them just that. Illya’s fingers drum idly on his armrest as he braces himself for the awkward tension to follow.

It doesn’t come.

Before he can fully register what is happening, the mechanic’s hands are on him, curling into his sleeve and _pulling._ Her face is turned up to his, and there is something small and wild and lost in the way she looks at him.

“Illya.” Her accent scrapes roughly over his name, the urgency in her tone unmistakable. “Are they testing you?”

It takes him a fraction of a second to catch up, to discern the words from the dark music of her voice. He drags his gaze from her mouth and blinks.

“Are they _testing_ you?” she repeats. “Like Peru.”

Gaby’s nails are digging into his skin—tiny kisses of pain that help to steady him. He shakes his head slowly, swallows. “I don’t know. I think I am their best bet at catching Yulia.”

The sharpness fades from her expression then, and her hands relax their grip, leaving little creases in the fabric as she removes them. Illya should mind the wrinkles, but he can’t bring himself to. Not when his sleeve now bears the memory of the mechanic’s touch.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” she whispers. Her gaze drops to her lap before she continues on. “When you left, I didn’t know what to think. You…” her voice falters. _“It_ scared me.”

Illya’s pulse is stuttering in a clumsy, tongue-tied rhythm. He offers her a weak smile, a weaker attempt at humor. “I didn’t think _anything_ scared you.”

It is the wrong thing to say.

Illya can see her withdrawing from him and he tenses, unsure of how to coax her back. Gaby’s eyes slide over him. A distant sort of iciness, crisp and ethereal, creeps into her words. “Perhaps not.”

The awkwardness _does_ descend between them then. It showers him like snowfall, a relentless flurry of regret that has him almost wishing for Solo to return.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and Gaby nods.

“You would have liked Perth,” she says a moment later. “It’s summer there.”

Illya’s heart swells with this sign of her forgiveness. He sees his chance to make amends and seizes it a little too eagerly, nearly tripping over his words. “Is that where you two went? After?”

“There were other missions in between, of course. Beirut and Oslo and then New York after Kennedy…”

He hums when her words trail off. The Americans were still in mourning over their president, a raw-edged grief that he had felt even in Moscow. Illya’s relief that the CIA would not be severing ties with UNCLE could not be overstated, though _that_ is a secret he will take with him to the grave.

“I did not realize how much I have missed,” he confesses.

There is a trace of humor in the look that Gaby gives him, brows raised, a slight lift to her lips. “Would you like me to bring you up to speed?”

Illya’s gaze sweeps over her. He notes the shadows under her eyes, the dozy tension in her shoulders, and bites back his agreement. His hand moves to cover her own. “Sleep,” he says gently. “You can debrief me later.”

Gaby huffs, but doesn’t withdraw from his touch. It encourages him. “That’s easy for you to say,” she grouses. _“You_ can sleep anywhere.”

His smile widens at that. It is one of the mechanic’s biggest pet peeves: the ease with which he and Solo can rest in any space or situation. “There is long night ahead of us both. Now, come. You need to _at least_ try.”

He reclines his seat, motions for her to follow. “I will try too,” he teases. Illya pushes up the armrest between them and invites Gaby to scoot closer to him. His fingers flex with the sudden desire to pull her into his lap, to cradle her to his chest and simply _hold_ her. Even just the thought of falling asleep with Gaby in his arms is enough to set the blood roaring in his ears.

She eyes him warily, but accepts the dare. Her thigh presses against his as she tucks her body neatly, _perfectly_ under his arm. Gaby’s head settles on his shoulder, and Illya can feel her breath ghosting over his neck in hot, dizzying gusts.

 _“Alles okay?”_ he asks softly.

_“Ja.”_

The confirmation emboldens him. Illya’s hand traces slow, rhythmic circles on her arm, and he revels in the sensation. He sighs, toying idly with a lock of her hair as Gaby shifts closer to him. He closes his eyes, lets the courage flow through his veins.

“Gaby?”

She hums into his collarbone, and that alone, he thinks, could be the death of him.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Illya takes the plunge. “I want to take you out.” He winces. No, that sounded too much like a threat. A hit order. “Take you out to _dinner,”_ he clarifies. “Or coffee. The ballet. Anything you’d want.”

He holds his breath and waits.

And waits.

“Gaby?” He shakes her slightly when she doesn’t respond. The mechanic mumbles something indistinctly and burrows closer to his chest, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt, a bent leg thrown carelessly over him.

She is asleep.

Illya looks imploringly up at the ceiling. He exhales sharply before sliding his arm over her back, his free hand securing her at the hip. That is how Cowboy finds them a moment later.

The American drops back into his seat across from them, a wickedness blooming across his features as he smirks. “Just to clarify, Peril, is Miss Teller here going to give you a _full_ debriefing later or just the quick and dirty—”

 _“Leave,”_ he growls.

Solo raises his hands in well-calculated surrender and saunters off to a different corner of the plane. Illya smooths his palm over the length of Gaby’s spine, both to soothe and be soothed. He checks that the CIA agent has settled into his new seat before he noses at her temple, breathes in the smell of her shampoo, the sweet rise of her perfume.

 

“It scared me too,” he murmurs into her hair, lips brushing against her skin. Illya sinks lower in his seat and tentatively, _contentedl_ _y,_  closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Awareness is tugging at the edges of his consciousness, but Illya fights it off, clutching onto this dream world for as long as he can. Gaby is a soft, warm weight upon him, and here, where everything feels golden and effortless and _right,_ he is loath to ruin it with something as coarse and unfeeling as reality.

He knows, too, how rare it is for the mechanic to find rest like this, and her sleep is as precious to _him_ as it is to her. Thus, it is with a reluctant sigh and a heavy heart that he gentles her awake.

“Gaby,” he rumbles.

She blinks up at him with big, sleepy eyes, dark and disoriented and drifting closed once more. Her hand drags down his chest, lingering a moment, before she half-pushes, half-rolls off of him and curls in on herself. She may be facing the window this time, but Illya can see that she is still very much asleep.

He chuckles quietly to himself and makes sure her seatbelt is snug over her lap once more. His body seems to hum with the loss, the devastating _emptiness_ that quakes through him. Illya’s hands are no longer cool, but warm where they had held her, palms tingling, fingers thrumming and flexing with conflicting emotions.

Illya breathes in and out through his nose to steady himself, to clear his head of her scent, her touch, and the siren song of possibility. More than the woman, but the _peace_ is within his reach: this answer to questions he never found himself worthy enough to ask.

He could easily lose himself in the speculation, as he has before, as he _always_ does, in the imagining of coffee dates and chess matches and dancing, a key to her apartment, late nights and tender mornings after, a _real_ ring on her finger. The empty spaces of his life—the drawers and shelves and closets and bookcases—being filled by her… but then a bout of turbulence jostles him from his reverie.

Gaby startles awake, bolting upright and flinging a wild, anxious stare about the plane. Illya’s hand on her knee seems to calm her as she makes sense of her surroundings. She nods at his unspoken question, manages a tiny smile before she crosses her legs, a subtle signal for him to release her.

The mechanic doesn’t look at him again until the plane lands, though Illya is certain he can’t be imagining the rosy tinge to her cheeks or the way her hands worry over the seat belt, as if needing some sort of distraction. She only stills when the American rejoins them, a knowing, wolfish grin on his face.

Before Cowboy can make some inane, suggestion-laden remark about the two of them “sleeping together”, Gaby is scrambling out of her seat, only slightly disheveled for her nap. She gathers up the three folders at lightning speed. “We have to destroy these, don’t we?”

She doesn’t wait for confirmation, but begins edging past them. Her long legs slide against Illya’s knees as she wriggles past Solo and into the aisle. “I’ll take care of it.”

Illya studiously avoids his partner’s eye as he stands and collects his luggage… _especially_ when he reaches to take Gaby’s down as well.


	3. Chapter 3

It is a shame, he thinks, that their train should depart so late. He would have liked for Gaby to see Leningradsky station in the sun—a much less intimidating sight than the imposing, silhouetted behemoth that looms before them now.

Illya’s eyes dart around anxiously. He has been here countless times, but he has never paid as much attention as he does now. Have the lights overhead always been this harsh, he wonders? The walls take on a lurid, ghastly pallor, the nameless faces bathed in a garish glow. Trailing a few steps behind the mechanic, Illya is acutely conscious of every flaw, every possible defect in this, her first glimpse of his homeland, her first time back behind the Iron Curtain.

He can’t help but wonder what she must think of it… whether she can divorce the shadow from the light, or like Illya, embrace the contradictions. This is his world: cruel and kind in equal measure, fiercely united and desperately lonely, terrible in its beauty, reserved, yet aggressive. Were Gaby to experience Russia with his eyes, would she see it? Or would everything be cast in the shadow of  an enemy flag?

These thoughts swirl through his mind as he guides his partners down to the platform where the _Krasnaya Strela_ awaits. He can pick out that brilliant, burning red anywhere. It is the color that bleeds into his vision when the anger overtakes him, the one flowing through his veins and painting the insides of his eyelids at night. It is the color of his mother’s sorrow and his father’s pride. His father’s _shame_ as well.

It is the color of revenge and redemption, the exact shade of the red tape that seeks to separate him from Gaby. Yes, he would know that color anywhere.

A sense of foreboding streaks icy-hot down his spine as he scans the milling crowds for their marks. There are simply too many variables for Illya to feel comfortable, though he has learned never to let his guard down. Especially in light of his most recent visit.

And that may be what is eating at him most. Their mission has been phrased as an overnight one, but that didn’t stop Illya and his partners from packing for a longer stay. He wishes he could say that it had been practicality rather than cynicism that had driven the decision. A small, treacherous part of his brain wonders, too, if the KGB will truly let them, let _him_ leave so soon... or if this assignment, these hopes of an extended contract are only another part of their game.

For Gaby’s sake more than his own, he hopes it isn’t. If Illya had had his way, the mechanic wouldn’t even be here at all. She would be in London, under Waverly’s watchful eye and protection. She would be _safe._ But, despite it all, he is grateful for her presence, to have Gaby here with him when he is so used to braving Moscow alone.

 _Selfish._ The chastisement sinks stone-like in his stomach, an acrid, bitter truth that demands to be recognized. There is no hiding behind pretense or so-called ‘good intentions’. He is selfish to draw comfort from her, when _he_ should be the one to soothe and steady.

But Gaby Teller needs no consolation. No reassurance or sympathy. Certainly not any pity. Not from him, not from Solo, not from _anyone._ No. Her strength comes entirely from within.

Illya watches as Gaby takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and nods sharply to herself. Her entire bearing changes. The woman standing before him is no longer a chop shop defector in the heart of enemy territory. She has the dignified grace of an heiress, the cool indifference and subtle, magnetizing authority of the rich and famous.

It is no longer a question of whether she belongs on this train, in the first-class, _spalny vagon_ coach, or not. It is a question, instead, of how best her loyal subjects can serve her.

Illya should know.

He’s been asking himself that since the moment he met her.

The train doors open with a soft hiss, and the passengers begin to make their move. To his right, the American is weaving through the crowds to orchestrate a “chance” encounter with the ambassador’s daughter, while Gaby is being helped onto the train by a _provodnik._ The uniformed man looks particularly starstruck by her and seems adamant on not only carrying her luggage, but personally escorting her to her compartment.

Illya tries not to roll his eyes. He fails miserably. Once the mechanic and her new admirer are out of sight, he lets his gaze sweep over the platform a final time, confirming that there has been no trace of Yulia.

Not that he had been expecting any. After all, Illya had been the one who trained her. There is nothing left to do now but to meet his fate head-on. If his former partner, his _friend_ is all that now stands between a future with Gaby and UNCLE… he doesn’t need to finish that thought. He will do what needs to be done when the time comes.

And so, the Russian lifts his suitcase with a grunt and climbs aboard the _Red Arrow._

 

* * *

 

Mikhail—as her companion is quick to introduce himself—leads her through the carpeted Red Sea that is their coach, past the washrooms and the piping hot samovar and then down the line of compartments. Gaby glances into each room as she walks by, keeping a mental tally of the passengers. Just because they believe Yulia to be operating alone, doesn’t mean she _will_ be.

Her partners will be taking up residence on either side of Ms. Vackova, while Gaby’s own compartment is on the other end of the car. She can only hope that it is by design, rather than carelessness (or worse) that she should be so removed from them. In any case, it will help them to cover all of their bases.

Gaby hums softly in approval when the provodnik finally bows her into her room. It is much more luxurious than she would ever have given the Russians credit for.

Mikhail plies her with a steady stream of questions as he converts her berth into a bed for her. Gaby watches his actions with mild interest, indulging him with pretty answers about London and how well she is enjoying her visit so far. It is not too great of a stretch to admit that she hasn’t seen enough to really form an opinion.

She demures when the man asks her just _why_ she is traveling to St. Petersburg—business or pleasure, that mind-numbingly cliched question. All it had taken was a breathy laugh, a few bats of her eyelashes, and a murmured “I’m still deciding” to make the provodnik too flustered to pursue the issue.

His work complete, Mikhail offers to get her bedding pack for her next. He even proposes to fetch her a “cuppa” as well in thickly-accented English. Gaby gives the man her best smile in response, and he nearly trips over himself in his haste to do her bidding.

She has to bite her cheek to keep from laughing as his footsteps resound down the hall. The mechanic takes a seat on the opposite berth, feels the purr of the engine beneath her feet. Her head falls back, her eyes close, and her mask slips for just a moment.

No turning back now.

Gaby takes a breath to steady herself as a knock sounds at her door. She summons up a smile to greet Mikhail when Illya walks in. Her heart skips a beat, nerves sparking and then settling. The lift of her lips is genuine this time as she invites him further into the room.

Illya hovers nervously beside her, shows her the bedding pack he’s brought with him… as if he would ever _need_ a reason to come see her, she thinks.

“I thought I would help you,” he says quickly. “You have not traveled on train like this before.”

“And you are an expert.”

He shrugs, a subtle arrogance tinged with humor and shyness. Gaby pushes to her feet to help him make up the bed. It is a strangely domestic scene, an out-of-body experience of a life that _could_ be. Much like those stolen moments on the plane where she had slept, _actually_ slept, far more deeply and peacefully than she’d had in months. When she had used Illya as a pillow, felt his large, cool hands warm and firm on her skin: his scent a caress, his presence a balm for every ache inside of her.

And now, he is here, _they_ are here in Russia, fluffing pillows and laying out blankets. There is nothing restful about the picture it paints. Clean sheets. Confined quarters. And every cell of her being calling out to him.

Gaby smooths a nervous hand over the bed, and wishes, not for the first time, that this were any other train on any other mission. If she were a better woman, she would have advocated to Waverly that _Illya_ be the one to stay behind. Instead, she had tried to save her own neck when her partner is the one wearing the noose. He is too close to his superiors, too close to the _last_ time they had called him back.

She had only been thinking of herself.

Can she honestly say, though, with Illya beside her now, that she regrets it? It is a dangerous thing, greedy and thoughtless and unforgivable, to draw strength from him where there is so much to fear.

Gaby clears her throat and lets her eyes trail over the newly-made bed—much less provocative than looking at Illya right now. A slight grin ghosts over her face, a thin veneer to mask the turmoil inside of her. “I thought Mikhail might have sent you.”

Illya looks up at her sharply. “Mikhail?”

A muffled cough behind them announces the provodnik’s arrival. The young man hands Gaby her tea and sets down the bedding on the other berth. He looks over Illya coldly. “May I see your ticket, sir?”

Her partner stiffens, but reaches into his pocket, presenting the slip of paper for inspection. Gaby can almost hear the grind of Illya’s teeth when Mikhail _tsks._ “I am afraid you are in the wrong compartment, comrade. I would be happy to escort you to—”

“No need,” Illya grits out. He turns to her with a slight bow. “Gaby.”

She lifts her hand in a lazy wave as she watches him go, bemusement warring with disappointment as he disappears from view. The provodnik immediately begins to shower her with apologies—each one more flowery and lavish than the last—and Gaby has to sip her tea to cover her smile.

When she finally manages to send him on his way, Mikhael’s chest is puffed out with pride and his cheeks are aglow with the same shade of scarlet as his uniform.

 

* * *

 

Illya mutters murderously beneath his breath as he makes his way back to his compartment: an unceasing tirade of threats and obscenities that he would ordinarily never allow himself to indulge in (and _never_ in front of Gaby, whether she could understand it or not), but for this, this _Mikhail,_ he is more than happy to make an exception.

He lets the door slam shut behind him, still fuming, when he stops cold, an unfinished string of curse words tapering off to a stunned silence. For a moment, Illya worries he might have accidentally entered the wrong room, but no, that is his suitcase. And _that_ is his bed… with a man seemingly passed out on top of it.

The acrid, overpowering smell of vodka is enough to make Illya’s eyes water as he approaches. The man is sprawled out face-down on the bed, fully-dressed with his shoes still on. Illya rolls his eyes at this distasteful display and prods at the prone form.

“You’re in my bed.”

“I have a ticket,” the man mumbles. Or, at least, that’s what Illya _thinks_ he says. It’s hard to say for certain when the words are slightly slurred and pillow-muffled. A hand lifts to motion vaguely at the table between the berths, almost smacking Illya in the process.

Illya snatches up the paper in question before any harm is done (on both sides). He reads it over, tosses it aside with a grunt of acknowledgement. His hands squeeze into tight fists.

“Told you so.”

He breathes in and out through his nose to steady himself. Irritation lashes bright and hot at his insides, the sting of it pushing him closer and closer to the edge. It disturbs him that the KGB should not have booked the compartments out completely. This is an oversight—perhaps an intentional one—that would thus allow a total stranger access to his room like this.

Maybe _not_ a total stranger. The man could simply be a civilian. He could just as easily be a KGB or THRUSH embed. Either way, there is little that Illya can do.

“That is still my bed,” he growls.

“You want it back?”

Illya’s lip curls in disgust at the thought. No doubt, there will be muddy boot prints all over it. “Keep it.” He huffs and looks over at the other berth. An unopened bedding pack lays on the floor beside it, as if the man had flung it there haphazardly. Clearly, he had chosen the path of least resistance.

As if reading Illya’s mind, the man runs a hand over the bedspread. “You did a nice job,” he says. “Such neatly-tucked corners. You a soldier? Or _maybe,_ you were a nurse.” His laughter is interrupted by a sharp hiccup. “You certainly swear like one.”

Illya pauses from making up the other bed. After a brief, internal struggle, his curiosity gets the better of him. “Like a soldier or a nurse?”

“You ever been in a hospital ward? The nurses’ mouths are even filthier than yours, though I gotta hand it to you, comrade. You hit on some phrases I haven’t heard before.”

Illya scowls at him, refusing to acknowledge this undignified praise… or the lazy salute the man gives him after. Despite it all, a flicker of amusement tugs at him. He’s spent enough time in the sickbay to come to the same conclusions. Try as she might to scandalize him sometimes, not even Gaby could come close to them.

The bed finally made, Illya leans down by the man’s bedside to retrieve his luggage. The man sniffs loudly. “That’s a nice perfume you’re wearing,” he snarks. “Pretty, young blonde, perhaps? Or that dark and mysterious-looking one?

Illya goes rigid, his fingers tapping on the handle of his case. His roommate, for lack of a better term, laughs at his hesitation: a harsh, sleep-graveled chuckle. “The foreigner it is then.”

“What makes you say she is foreign?” he snaps.

The man finally turns his face towards Illya. Dark, hooded eyes, a generous shadow of stubble, and creases on his cheek and forehead from the pillow. He is of an indeterminate age: the type who could be in their forties… or a less-forgiving twenties. He smirks up at him. “Because no one from behind the Curtain wears Tosca.”

Illya yanks the suitcase away, hard enough to lose his balance. He hurries to get his luggage in order before his shaking hands and flaring temper finally drives him from the room.

“If you see a blonde,” the man call out after him, “send her my way, won’t you?”

 

* * *

 

Zophie Vackova’s luggage arrives before the woman does. A provodnitsa smiles shyly at him as she sets the bags down, and Solo immediately moves to help her. Together, they convert the berths from bench seats into beds. A service bell rings, and she shrugs in apology, before handing him the bedding packs and quietly slipping away.

Solo eyes her retreating figure appreciatively. He hums to himself as he turns back to his task… and proceeds to make himself completely at home in the wrong compartment. _It wouldn’t be the first time,_ he smirks.

The American has this seduction down cold: the profuse apologies over this ‘innocent mistake’, the gentlemanly insistence that he will leave immediately—and when the good lady protests—the charming, heated invitation to, perhaps, _share_ the room instead.

After all, he _has_ gone to all this trouble already.

His mark’s luggage stands primly across from him, and Solo’s palms itch with a desire to rifle through them all for false bottoms, hidden compartments. Any hiding places for those documents of hers.

He has to force himself to hold off, It would be a much harder sell, he knows, if Zophie were to catch him in the act.

Where _was_ she anyway?

Solo had caught a glimpse of the woman on the platform, but the press of bodies vying for entry on the train had impeded his progress to get to her. By the time he had managed to maneuver his way through the crowds, the ambassador’s daughter had vanished.

Before curiosity can turn into to concern and wonder give way to worry, the compartment door eases open. A feminine footfall sounds behind him, and Solo turns to welcome her with his most devastating smile. That smile freezes—along with the rest of him—when he sees her.

 _“Napoleon?”_ she gasps. Her purse clatters to the ground.

Solo holds up a hand to stop her from bolting. “Wait,” he croaks out. His mouth is dry, silver tongue suddenly leaden. _“Wait.”_

His head might be sluggish, but his body is running on autopilot. He catches her by the wrist when she turns to make a run for it, presses her up against the wall without a second thought. It is a very _different_ kind of passion that compels him to do so: an ice-cold anger unthawed by the passage of time. He pins her, fumbles to lock the door behind her.

Her breath catches in that familiar way of hers when he bends to whisper in her ear. “It’s been too long… _Ani.”_

 

* * *

 

Illya is nursing a cup of coffee when he hears the tapping. A soft, but distinct tattoo against the wall that connects his compartment with Zophie’s.

It seems to rouse his roommate from his slumber. The man perks up slightly. “Who’s Gaby? She the one whose scent you’re wearing?”

Illya levels a glare at him. It hardly surprises him at this point that the man knows morse code. He doesn’t have time to question him now… oh, but he _will._ The man grins knowingly at him in response.

“You should go check on that, _Peril._ It sounds serious.”

Illya narrows his eyes at him before turning away. He speaks into the concealed microphone in his cufflink, passing on Cowboy’s message in quick and quiet German. He is just reaching for his Makarov when Gaby responds.

 _“I think I’ve found our mole,”_ she whispers. _“I’m going to follow her.”_

His roommate clambers to a more upright position. “The blonde?”

 _“Who is that?_ ”

“Does not matter,” Illya assures her with a pointed look at the other man. “Be careful. _Do not engage.”_

Illya almost smiles at the annoyed, little _hmph_ Gaby makes in response. That’s as great a concession as he can hope for. His expression sobers when he steps out into the hallway and arrives outside of Zophie’s door.

He is raising his hand to knock when the man peeks his head out of their shared compartment, clutching Illya’s half-finished coffee. “You going to finish this?”

 

* * *

 

As soon as he is admitted into the room, Illya draws back in shock. He tosses a bewildered, accusatory stare at his American partner. Zophie’s hands are bound behind her back, her mouth is gagged, and she is seated on the bed—not scared, like he might expect, but rather, calm.

Calm and _furious._

There is a deathly stillness to the way the woman holds herself… not stiff, but rather, _serpentine._ As if she is merely biding her time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Her glare, too, he thinks, can _only_ be described as venomous.

Solo smiles grimly at him by way of greeting. “Peril, I’d like you to meet Anika de Koning. Not so much an old friend, so much as a… a more recent enemy.” He shrugs. “I suppose I should be grateful, though. Without Ani’s help, I wouldn’t have embarked on a long and illustrious career with the CIA.”

Illya’s eyes widen at the implication. “She turned you in.”

“And was paid a king’s ransom for it,” he huffs. “Four countries, not to mention Langley, were all _very_ keen to express their gratitude.”

The American sinks onto his heels to be eye-level with Anika. “The fact that you’re here now means that that money didn’t go as far as you thought it would.”

Solo removes the gag, rolls his eyes when the woman tries to snap at his fingers. She chuckles then, a bitter, sardonic thing that sets Illya’s teeth on edge. “You know I was never good at playing the long game.”

“Well, you’ve had ten years to figure it out,” he quips.

Illya steps in before the two can resume their bickering. He points at the still-bound woman before him. “If this is not our mark, then where is she?”

“I would suggest you answer the man, Ani.” There is steel in the American’s voice, a rare sharpness that Illya is unaccustomed to hearing from him. “The KGB, as you know, can be quite persuasive. And _trust me_ when I say that I would be happy to sit back and watch.”

Illya schools his features into a hard, blank scowl. It almost… _hurts_ to be cast in the villain role like this. To be reduced to nothing more than brute force, the threat of torture. He will play his part for Cowboy’s sake, but that doesn’t mean he will enjoy it.

Still, he supposes it is only fair given what this woman had done to his partner.

Anika eyes him warily, a defiance that Illya can almost bring himself to admire. Eventually, she scoffs and looks away. “I was contacted about this job. _Before you ask—”_ she adds when Solo is clearly about to, “—it was anonymous. All of it. They gave me a photo of a woman and told me to make myself look like her. And then after that? All I had to do was ride the train.”

“So, you’re a decoy,” Solo says. He dusts off his trousers as he straightens. “The thing is, I saw Zophie Vackova, the _real_ Zophie Vackova, at the platform earlier. So. Where. Is. She?”

Illya crosses his arms and stares at her until she answers the question. “Who’s to say she even boarded the train?” She shrugs. “Far as I’m concerned, she could still be back in Moscow.”

Solo’s jaw flexes, and Illya watches as his eyes sweep over the compartment, settling on Anika’s bags. “This your luggage?”

“Most of it.” She nods her head at a slim, leather case. “That one right there was left at the station for me. I had a provodnitsa take it to my room.”

“And what are you supposed to do with it?”

Anika fixes the American with a bored look. “There’s a dropsite in St. Petersburg. I think you can figure out the rest.”

“And has it occured to you,” Solo says tightly, “that this could be a trap?”

The woman tosses her hair back with a snort. “Let’s just say I have _every_ reason to want to see this through.”

“Name one.”

“How about twenty thousand?”

On Solo’s cue, Illya bends down to inspect the case. There are a number of folders inside, as well as a thickly-padded envelope. When he peers inside of it, he finds it nearly bursting with bills in a half-dozen currencies. He raises an eyebrow in surprise.

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg,” she crows. “I could sink an entire  _fleet_ of  _Titanics_  by the time I get the rest.”

“That’s _if_ you make it out of here alive.” Solo drags a hand over his face, shoulders dropping in a heavy sigh. “As long as you’re here in this compartment, you’re in danger. More than that, you’re putting our _mission_ in danger. You’re spending the night in my room.”

“Just like old times,” she retorts. Anika looks over the American’s face and clicks her tongue. “Oh, don’t tell me you still have _feelings_ for me. I’d hate for you to disappoint me like that.”

Illya shifts his weight on his feet, uncomfortably intrusive in this moment. But Solo doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t seem to notice him at all, in fact. He smirks, cold and biting, at Anika. “I’m not doing this for me, my dear. Not even for you.”

“For the greater good?” she scoffs.

“Something like that.” His voice drops then, and so does his smile. “But when the dust settles, _then_ I’ll be doing it for me.”

The American hauls her to her feet, and Illya doesn’t miss the flash of fear in those green eyes. A chill runs through his own body at witnessing this side of his partner: usually so cool, armed with a callous charm and deceptively good-natured demeanor.

This, _this_ is something else entirely: chilling and dark and quietly menacing. For the first time, Illya understands what Napoleon Solo is truly capable of.

“I trust you can handle it from here,” he tells him now, as he prepares to lead Anika from the compartment.

Illya grunts in response. He will wait here, guard the room, the files, and then apprehend the mole when she comes out of hiding. _Is someone else looking out for Zophie,_ he wonders, _or has this always been the plan?_

Whatever is going on, he has little choice but to wait it out. Solo expertly undoes Anika’s binds, ducks down to whisper into her ear. Something about putting on a show.

The compartment door opens at her nod, and the two tumble out into the hallway, locked in a passionate, borderline violent-looking embrace. Only to the trained eye would the display be unconvincing in its intensity. It is a smokescreen to draw the eye, to make Yulia think that the prize is ripe for the taking.

By the sound of it, the pair have nearly knocked over the provodnik. Illya smirks to himself at that. The attendant apologizes on reflex, then asks if he can get them anything before he locks up their coach for the night.

Solo and Anika wave him off, their laughter trailing to the next compartment, before abruptly cutting out with the click of the door.

Illya’s head snaps up, but not for the sudden silence. He can hear the jingle of keys as Mikhail passes by. The realization has him fumbling to speak into the microphone.

“Gaby,” he hisses. “They are locking the coach doors. You need to get back.”

The mechanic, he knows, could likely charm, sneak, or break her way back in, but he’d rather she avoid any suspicion. More than that, he hates the idea of her being out there alone. Illya stifles his sigh of relief when Gaby answers back. Her voice is muffled, staticky.

He manages to piece together most of her account: she had followed Yulia through the next first-class car under the guise of going to the toilets at the end of the corridor.

 _“I know which compartment is hers,”_ she breathes. _“As soon as she leaves, I can go in and—”_

There is a sharp cry, a crash, the harsh pant of Gaby’s breathing, and then… silence. Illya is out of the compartment in an instant. He barrels towards the provodnik, yelling at him to wait before he reaches for the key.

“I’d like to go to the dining car,” he rasps. It is the first thing that comes to his mind. The most plausible-sounding excuse he could conjure.

Mikhail looks less than enthused to see him—a feeling Illya tries hard not to reciprocate in his own expression. The man plunges into a spiel about how there is no dinner service and that the selection will be, by necessity, limited, but Illya holds his ground.

Eventually, the man relents, and Illya is allowed passage to the next coach.

 _“Spasibo,”_ he calls over his shoulder as he walks briskly through. He waits for the the provodnik to turn his back before he takes off at a dead run.

 

* * *

 

There are no sounds, no _signs_ of a struggle coming from inside the toilets or the washrooms adjacent to them. There is no crowd of onlookers gawking, no provodniks fighting to maintain control over the situation. There is only the anticipation: deafening in its silence, suffocating in its stillness.

It strains his nerves almost to the breaking point as he approaches. With a quick check to make sure that there truly _is_ no one around, Illya presses his ear to the women’s room door. When he can hear nothing but the buzzing in his ears, he raps his knuckles against the wood and calls out thickly in Russian.

He tries the door next. _Locked._ Illya’s hands shake as he pulls the pick from his pocket. Cowboy had insisted he start carrying one with him, and for once, he is grateful for the additional ‘training’ he had received from him.

He is much quicker than he used to be, but it is still too long before he gets the door open. It closes with a bang behind him as Illya rushes forward, his knees buckling from beneath him. Gaby stands with her back to him, head bowed, one arm hanging awkwardly at her side. She isn’t moving.

Illya’s stomach drops and he swears his heart stops beating. There is only one maneuver he knows than can induce such an effect.

Somebody has used The Kiss on her.

He reconstructs the fight (if it could even be considered that) in maddeningly clear detail: a smear of blood on the stall door where the woman had dashed Gaby’s head against it. She’d snuck up on her from behind, catching her completely off-guard. Before Gaby could recover from the initial blow, she had been thrown against one of the washbasins, hard enough to chip the porcelain.

All it had taken when the mechanic staggered back to her feet was a single, expertly executed blow to immobilize her.

Panic and rage storm inside Illya, clouding his vision with red, red, _red._ He _cannot_ allow it to cloud his judgment too. Illya has to force himself to breathe, to override every instinct screaming at him to go to Gaby, to track down Yulia, to rip the whole train into pieces.

It is a helplessness he hasn’t felt since his childhood.

A drop of blood trickles slowly from her temple, and Illya’s hands ball into fists, nails digging into his palms to stop himself from catching it with his thumb, from applying pressure to the wound with his hands and then his lips when the pain has been soothed away.

He knows the rules.

_Don’t touch._

And Gaby is far too precious to him to risk breaking them.

Illya’s eyes sting, his throat burns as he edges around her body in the tight space. He bends to retrieve her earpiece. Deliberately crushed underfoot. He scowls at it, rolls it back and forth between his fingers as he returns to the door.

There is barely enough sense left in him to lock it before he sinks to his knees. He stares at the mechanic and then through her in an unseeing cycle of spite and sorrow and self-flagellation. _He has failed her. He has_ failed _her. If he hadn’t let her go alone, if he’d only been quic—_

The low burst of static in his ear might have been a bomb being detonated for how forcefully he reacts to it. The words pierce through the thin veil of consciousness tethering him to this moment.

_“Illya. Illya, can you hear me?”_

He jerks again at the use of his given name, blinks as he identifies the speaker at last. _Cowboy._ He exhales sharply. It is a long moment before Illya can get his voice to work. _“Da.”_

_“Do you have the files?”_

Illya’s brain stutters over that, processing the significance of the question with a dawning, shuddering horror. The _files?_ He had left the case behind, left the folders unprotected. He’s not even sure he’d closed the door before he’d taken off.

“No, I…”

_“They’re gone, Peril. Yulia must have gotten to them while you were… where exactly?”_

“The ladies’ room.” Illya’s voice is too hollow to hold any embarrassment, but the shame rings loud and clear: a brittle resonance that seems to echo off the walls. Before the American can erupt into any manner of indignations, he stills him with the only words that matter. The only ones that will _ever_ matter. “It’s Gaby.”

The line goes quiet, but not before he hears Solo’s pinched inhale on the other side. “I’m not leaving her,” Illya snaps. As if there could possibly be a doubt about that.

The door handle jangles behind him, accompanied by low, feminine muttering. Illya slams his hands on the ground, his call of “It’s occupied,” somewhere between a growl and a roar. There is a startled squeak as the woman hurries down the corridor.

Illya hunches in upon himself, head cradled between his palms, rocking back and forth. His breaths tear out of constricted lungs and through chattering teeth. He could implode with the magnitude of his shortcomings in the past five minutes alone.

 _“Just… join me when you can,”_ Solo sighs. _“The_ both _of you. I’ll see if I can’t track down our mole.”_

“Thank you,” he mutters, so low he can’t be sure the American could even hear it. The line goes dead once more as Illya lifts his head and resumes his vigil over the mechanic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming in for the landing soon. One chapter left to go! Thanks so much for staying with me. <3

The American picks his way through the cars of the _Krasnaya Strela:_ first through the _spalny vagon_ coaches and then on into the _kupé_ ones. His eyes are peeled, his fingers light as he makes quick work of the locks. He is searching. With urgency, but without any clear sense of direction. Solo idly twists his signet ring, prays to the twin faces of Janus for even a _spark_ of divine intervention.

He gets his wish when he enters the _platskartny_ cars. The third class coaches are arranged as an open-plan dormitory—54 bunks per car. It is not for the faint of heart. Only the most adventurous and budget-conscious of travelers would dare brave the madhouse he now finds himself in.

It is almost disappointingly easy for Solo to slip in, unnoticed, masked by the chaos that surrounds him. But then he starts to realize that this is not the typical hustle and bustle of a train car, but the fevered excitement of a spectacle, of witnesses at a crime scene.  

The air is thick with chatter, heady with adrenaline as Solo brushes past bodies craning to get a peek at one of the bunks. With a mild sense of foreboding, he steps past the last onlooker and into the eye of the storm.

A young woman lies prone. Ashy skin, red hair. No doubt with a pair of glassy, green eyes under the tightly-closed lids. She convulses once, a moan flinching out of blue lips. A gasp arises like a wave through the sea of onlookers. Their hands rise in a forest of pointed fingers.

There can be no mistaking it. The woman clinging to life before him is Zophie Vackova.

The _real_ Zophie Vackova.

Solo is quick to take charge of the situation. He corrals the passengers back to their beds, learns from multiple, overlapping accounts that a doctor has already been sent for. He kneels by Zophie’s side, presses his fingers to discern the weak pulse beneath the clammy, sweat-slicked wrist.

There is a broken teacup on the floor, a few sips of liquid still sloshing with the measured rumble of the train. Solo’s jaw clenches when he sees that her bags are open, evidently rifled through. Somebody had wanted to dispose of—or, at the very least, incapacitate—the ambassador’s daughter. Perhaps the same somebody who had arranged for a decoy to take her place on the train.

Had they _known_ that Solo would recognize Ani? It hardly seems probable. And yet, he can’t seem to shake the feeling that UNCLE and THRUSH may not be the only players in this game… whether this is a sabotage or a setup, he can’t say, but he’s determined to get to the bottom of it.

There are too many pieces in this puzzle, he thinks. Too few to make out an image. He yields to the advancement of raised voices and heavy footsteps approaching from behind. Solo dusts off his trousers as he straightens. Without a second glance, he leaves Zophie in more capable hands than his own.

Whoever has done this to her, to _Gaby_ is still out there.

He spares a thought for the mechanic then, stomach twisting viciously with concern over what may have befallen her. Peril hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with any details, and now Solo’s mind is left to fill in the blanks. He breathes deeply through his nose, corrals such distractions into a mental safe. A  _fail-safe_ while he's on the clock.

Right now, all he can do is trust his partners and do his job.

A flash of movement on the other side of the aisle snags his attention. A lithe form weaves fluidly through the crowd, ducking into corners and shadows. Solo catches a glimpse of a blonde ponytail as the woman picks the lock and disappears into the next car.

As he pads softly after her, he overhears one of the passengers’ accounts of the evening’s drama. The man had apparently boarded the train to find Zophie already asleep in her bunk. Or, at least, that’s what he had assumed until the provodnitsa had come around to check their tickets.

Upon realizing the severity of the situation, the attendant had gasped and then ran to fetch a doctor… but not before the car’s other occupants had begun to crowd around the ill woman, pressing in with a well-meaning, but ruinous curiosity.

 _Anyone,_ Solo huffs, could have taken something from her bags in the confusion—assuming, that is, that there had been anything to take. With measured steps and a newfound intent in his stride, the American takes off after the KGB double agent.

 

* * *

 

Illya’s pulse is slow and strong and steady as he waits. It is a mechanized march, _infinitely_ more consistent than the ticking of his watch. Time has lost all meaning for him in this purgatory: the moments blur in a surrealist daze, the seconds seem to stretch further and further into eternity, each one longer than the last. It is his own body, his own instincts that ground him.

Twenty _lifetimes_ could not have felt so long as this.

The spell is broken with a soft cry from Gaby as she jolts, legs giving out from underneath her. Illya is at her side in seconds, sliding on his knees to pull her against him. It is to steady her as much as it is to steady him. Her body recognizes him before her mind does: an instinctive flinch at the surprise touch before she leans, just as instinctively, into it.

Illya exhales hotly against the flat of her stomach. It shudders through him: aching with need and the _relief_ of having her back. He groans softly when she says his name, a tight, questioning note to her voice.

“I’m here,” he murmurs. “S’okay.”

Her legs tremble slightly, and Illya doesn’t have to look to see the curt nod she gives him. Their breaths and heartbeats synchronize as he holds her, head pressed against her torso, eyes squeezed shut. One of Gaby’s hands lifts to card through his hair, and the sound that escapes him then is more sob than whimper.

_“Gaby.”_

There is a sharp hiss as she tries to lift her other arm. Guilt claws at him as he draws back. _How could he have forgotten?_ Gaby’s hand is still in his hair, so he gently disentangles it. His thumb skims over her knuckles before his lips chase it, begging forgiveness as he rises to his feet.

The mechanic looks up at him with wide, careful eyes. Illya raises his hand to brush the bangs back from her forehead, long, agile fingers ghosting over the dried blood at her temple. He hums as he inspects her from head to toe. No other sign of injury save the arm cradled to her chest.

“Sprained,” she mutters. An embarrassed, angry scoff as she jerks her chin towards the sink. “Awkward landing.”

Illya grits his teeth against the image: Gaby being thrown against the washbasin, hand extended to catch her fall, muscles wrenching at the impact. The anger is pooling low in his stomach, and his voice is so thick he can hardly get the words out. “Did you see who did this?”

He _needs_ her to confirm it for him. Gaby shakes her head. “She snuck up on me. But she was blonde. Russian. My height.”

A vague description, but it matches the one in his mind. Illya nods. _Yulia._ Any reservation about the hit order on her, any _inkling_ of doubt as to her culpability vanishes in a flash of red smoke. The corners of his vision are dimming, red-rimmed and sparking.

He is ready to drown in it. Ready to let the fire lick at his heels and consume him body and soul when a more merciful mistress lays claim to him. Gaby’s hand on his arm, his name in her mouth is enough to make Illya gasp for air as the world, _his_ world, comes back into focus: dark eyes, parted lips, and a touch that ignites like matches against his skin.

Gaby edges closer to him, the hem of her dress brushing against his trousers. His throat works as he swallows, waiting. “Illya,” she says, low and sweet and urgent. “We need to get inside that compartment.”

 

* * *

 

“Which side is her room?” he whispers.

“Left.”

Illya nods, repositions himself so that Gaby is at his right. The corridor is narrow, but he has insisted on walking right next to her—ready to shield her, she knows, from an attack in any direction—and for her part, Gaby is content to let him. She is simply too tired to protest, too humbled to admit how _safe_ he makes her feel.

Her head and wrist are aching, though the pain has been overshadowed by a sweeter kind of torture. Gaby can still feel the imprint of Illya’s lips on her skin: a sense memory she hopes is permanently etched into her cells. How curious, how _dangerous,_ that a gesture so chaste could affect her this strongly.

She flexes her blessed hand absently, looks up to catch him watching. She wonders if Illya knows, if his own mouth burns from her touch. Something in his eyes tells her it does.

Gaby is the first to break the stare, clearing her throat as she signals for him to stop. They are two steps from Yulia’s compartment. Illya slowly draws his Makarov from his waistband and silently tries the door.

It is unlocked, the room dark.

They exchange a cautious glance before venturing inside, Gaby following Illya, both braced for an ambush that never comes. She switches on the light and lets the door click shut behind her. To the untrained eye, everything is perfectly in order. But as the mechanic knows, it’s not what you look at that matters. It’s what you _see._

Yulia’s compartment screams ‘spy’. It also whispers ‘survivor’. The _Ossi_ girl in Gaby feels the echo of it as she looks over the minimal luggage. No personal effects, no excess, every item of clothing and piece of tech ultimately disposable. All positioned for a quick getaway, giving the room a feeling of transience.

Nothing homey about a holding zone.

As Illya sweeps for bugs, Gaby begins to go through Yulia’s belongings, studying her opponent and gleaning what can’t be learned on the page. It startles her, their similarities. Theirs is a life lived out of suitcases that could burn everything without flinching. That could leave when the orders came or when the time ran out and never even _think_ to look back.

The tears could come later, if they ever came at all. Gaby shrugs off any thread of kinship she feels as she digs past the stashes of foreign currencies, the assorted passports. She rifles through a playbill for _Swan Lake_ and a handful of blank postcards to see if there’s a hidden code. Nothing stands out to her until she finds a man’s flask tucked away beside a cache of sleeping pills and a ring hidden in a pair of nylons.

“Military issue,” Illya says when she holds the former up for his inspection. “There should be initials at bottom left.”

Gaby’s thumb swipes over the battered pewter, lightly tracing the lettering there. “A.B. Does that mean anything to you?”

He shakes his head, resumes his fiddling with the woman’s camera. “Could be sentimental. Could just as easily be stolen.”

“And the ring?”

“Family heirloom, perhaps. Or for a cover.” He frowns. “Anything related to our mission?”

Gaby hums, bites back a retort for the subtle rebuke. Why _shouldn’t_ she want to learn more about her opposite number? She is curious about this former partner of Illya’s. Curious to get this glimpse of another female spy.

She has a thousand questions she wants to ask Illya, but she keeps them to herself for now. He has just pocketed the roll of film—evidence or nostalgia, she can’t help but wonder—when her fingers blindly brush against metal. “I think I’ve found something.”

Illya watches her closely as she digs it out. She scoffs at the thin, metal tube, disappointment rankling her for the false alarm. “It’s just lipstick.”

“Maybe not _just_ lipstick.” Illya plucks it from her hands and uncaps it, a faint smile on his lips. Gaby’s brow furrows as she stares down what looks, inexplicably, like the barrel of a gun. “Single-shot, small caliber pistol,” he explains. “KGB calls it the Kiss of Death.”

Gaby carefully returns all three items to their proper places, cheeks burning with a riot of emotions. Not _least_ because she should have checked the cosmetic out herself. Had that been pride she’d detected in his voice? For the technological advances of his agency? Or for the woman herself?

The touch of something unexpectedly cool snaps her from her trance. She eases the slim, glass vial from between a set of blouses—empty, save for a few last, lingering drops.

“Illya, is this… poison?”

His grim hum confirms it as he takes it from her. “If she has not used it already, then she will. Where—”

“Among her shirts.” A minute change comes over Illya’s expression. Something she can’t quite place. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” he says slowly. “I would have expected it to be elsewhere.”

She waits.

“Inside pocket of her coat.” He seems to avoid her eye as he shrugs. “Is favorite hiding place of hers.”

“Perhaps she was in a rush.”

Illya nods. He gestures to the room around him, his search evidently concluded. “I did not find the files.”

Gaby pushes to her feet. “We will,” she assures him. “But maybe we don’t need to.” In her hand is her other discovery: a familiar-looking, robin’s egg blue computer disk.

 

* * *

 

Illya has to practically drag her back to their proper coach. _We need to regroup with Solo,_ he tells her. _And_ you _need medical attention._ It’s hard to argue with him on either point, but Gaby is itching to be back on the hunt.

She finds her resolve weakening with the comforting press of Illya’s palm on her shoulder as they pull up to a stop before the door. Before he can reach for a pick, Gaby simply raises her hand to knock, smirking slightly as she meets his eye.

Mikhail hastens to open the door for her, freezing slightly when he sees Illya. He welcomes Gaby back into her compartment, eyes going wide when she steps into the light. Immediately, he is fussing over her, his hands smoothing down her arms as he inspects the cut on her forehead.

The provodnik looks at Illya’s hand on her shoulder and then back up at her. He forces a smile, lowering his voice to whisper in heavily-accented German. _Did he hurt you?_

She feels the reflexive tightening of her partner’s grip, the staccato tapping, the hitch in his breathing. Gaby shakes her head ‘no’, laughs off the idea through the aching in her chest. She assures Mikhail that she had simply fallen, but that Illya had been the one to come to her aid.

The provodnik still looks unconvinced, so Gaby cups his cheek with her good hand and asks if he could bring her a first aid kit. The man’s face warms under her fingers as he nods and nods and nods.

“Thank you, Misha,” she coos, using the diminutive to soothe one and rile the other. “I’ll be in my compartment.”

Mikhail bows, and she is certain Illya is making a face behind her. When the man has finally taken his leave, her partner’s hand skims down to the small of her back: a gentling touch before they start walking.

 _“Misha,”_ he scoffs.

“He insisted,” she says. Light, coy. “I didn’t think that would make you jealous.”

“I didn’t think _he_ would deserve such familiar address.”

She tilts her head to the side. “And do you? Deserve it?”

He looks at her warily, considering. Gaby can see the warring inside him, the doubts of his own worthiness, and wonders if she’s taken her game too far. But then Illya lets out a short hum and answers her. “We are… friends, are we not?”

An honest answer, but not a complete one. It is a half-truth. A half more than she’d expected from him. Illya’s brow is furrowed and he darts a quick glance at her, as if gauging her reaction. As if awaiting his sentencing.  

Something in her softens at that. “Of course we are,” she murmurs, reaching to take his hand. Illya loosens his fist instinctively. _Good,_ she thinks. _But it could be better._

Gaby coaxes him to uncurl his fingers, then laces her own between them. His eyes catch on their joined hands before locking onto hers. Tender, grateful. A little hesitant. The other half of his answer.

That decides it for her. She tugs on his hand to get him moving again. “Come on, _Illyusha.”_

Something bright and young and precious flutters in her chest as, hand-in-hand, she leads him back to her compartment.

 

* * *

 

The provodnik arrives shortly after. He procures the first aid kit with a flourish, looks dully at Illya when he finds him close to the mechanic’s side: arms crossed and looming.

“It’s okay, sir,” he assures him just a shade too forcefully. “I will handle it from here.”

Illya scowls ferociously at him. He opens his mouth to protest when Gaby intervenes. She arches an eyebrow at him in warning before turning to face the attendant. Her eyes are warm and pleading, her voice honeyed. “He can stay, can’t he?”

The man caves instantly, and Illya wonders, unsettlingly, if _he_ is as pliable in the German woman’s hands. Not for the first time does he hear Cowboy’s remarks about “going soft” where Gaby is concerned.

“Very well, miss.” The provodnik glances coolly up at Illya. “I was actually thinking I could use an assistant.”

He manages the barest hint of a smile in response, eyes boring into the provodnik’s. “Happy to help,” he says through clenched teeth.

Mikhail pauses before finally moving to open the kit. He motions for Gaby take a seat on her bed and begins digging around the case for supplies. Illya shadows him closely, looking over his shoulder to inspect and intimidate.

“I hope you plan to use that on your hands,” he growls when the man tears open an alcohol swab and starts to move towards Gaby. “Because you do _not_ use those on open wounds.”

“We need to clean the area first,” he snipes back.

Illya glowers at him. So arrogant, so _ignorant._ “Are you prepping her for injection? _No?_ Then we need water.”

Gaby has been silently watching this exchange with a mixture of concern and amusement. She lifts her head, smiling a little when Illya calls her. He loses his train of thought for a second.“Do you have washcloth in your bag?”

“I can check.” She stands lightly to her feet and brushes past him, palms ghosting over the planes of his torso as she walks past. His breath cuts out as she makes her way to her luggage, resumes when she presses a square of fabric into his hands.

“I will go wet this,” he announces. Illya worries the cloth between his fingers before he turns to face the provodnik again. “You can manage a sling by yourself, can’t you? If not, have Gaby help you.”

He ducks out of the compartment and takes a moment to compose himself, breathing deeply through his nose. In and out. In and out. He lopes down the corridor, stopping to ask a provodnitsa for her assistance with the samovar.

At her gentle prompting, Illya explains the situation to her as she helps him with his preparations. She nods, sympathetic,  and shares her own account of how a passenger—a young woman—had taken seriously ill not too long ago.

He tries not to betray too much interest in that occurrence, though his mind is already spinning back to the vial recovered in Yulia’s room. The decoy discovered in Zophie’s. He has a strong suspicion of who the victim had been.

The provodnitsa wrings out the washcloth with practiced, dexterous efficiency. A snatch of her perfume rises with the steam of the boiling water as she hands it back to him with a smile. Illya doesn’t flinch at the temperature or the drag of her fingers over his, the way her scent seems to suddenly settle over him. Subtle and heady and _familiar._

He looks at her closely, curiously, but shakes it off. Illya clears his throat and thanks the attendant. She ducks her head, flushed, and tucks an errant curl back behind her ear: burnished gold against the scarlet of her cap.

_If you see a blonde, send her my way, won’t you?_

Illya blinks, coughing to cover the shocked laugh the thought brings. He still needs to interrogate, to _investigate_ the man, but right now, Gaby, _his_ Gaby is waiting for him.

 

* * *

 

The washcloth is still scalding against his skin when he reenters the compartment. It is _nothing_ compared to how hot his blood gets when he sees the sight before him.

The provodnik is standing too close, _far too close_ for Illya’s liking, and, going by the caged look in Gaby’s eyes, far too close for hers as well. Mikhail is, apparently, there to knot the sling behind her neck, but his body is almost entirely pressed up against the mechanic’s, forcing her legs apart to accommodate him. Gaby’s face is buried in his chest, and one of his hands is keeping her there, cupped possessively around her neck as he ties the fabric.

Illya is moving before he even realizes it. This man who had tried to accuse _him_ of hurting Gaby earlier, as if he would, _could_ _ever_ do such a thing, is now the one invading her space, ignoring her squirming, her muffled protests, and becoming overly familiar with her.

Lightning flashes red before his eyes: a quick strike, a clap of thunder when the provodnik drops, unconscious, at his feet. Illya is not expecting a thank you from Gaby. He _certainly_ is not expecting the way her eyes burn into his with righteous, furious indignation.

“I was doing just fine!” she snaps.

“And _now,”_ he says firmly, “you are doing better.”

Gaby scowls. “But what about him, hmm? I expect _you_ will be answering bells for the rest of the night then?”

Illya nudges the provodnik with his shoe and sighs. The mechanic is right. Better not to call attention to the fact that their car is understaffed. Still, he is less than enthused by the prospect of moonlighting in the middle of a mission.

He is none too gentle as he hauls the limp body off the ground and dumps him unceremoniously onto the other berth. Gaby’s gaze rakes over Mikhail before she turns away.

“Pity,” she mutters. “I don’t think his uniform is going to fit.”

“We will worry about that later. Right now, _you_ are my priority.”

“Only now?”

Illya smiles at her fondly, focuses intently on the washcloth as he sets it aside. “You know this.”

Gaby moves to cup his chin, tilt his head back up to look at her. Her thumb rasps idly over the stubble there, and Illya is finding it harder and harder to concentrate. “I’d still like to hear you say it.”

The words are on the tip of his tongue, dancing along that precipice, daring him to take that leap. His hand lifts of its own accord, sinking into her hair before sliding to test the integrity of her sling. Illya clicks his tongue in disapproval as he undoes the knot, settles the expanse of fabric onto her lap.

The confession is still bubbling up inside him, but he suppresses it. He might not be able to tell her yet. That doesn’t mean he can’t _show_ her. “Your _Misha_ was pushy. Incompetent.” He holds her stare steadily. _“I_ will take care of you.”

And so, he does.

Illya grabs a bandage roll and wraps her hand and wrist with expert precision. He squeezes her fingers reassuringly before moving on. Next comes the sling. Gaby watches him closely as he fashions the cloth into a triangle, leans in to secure it at the back of her neck. He is careful to avoid even incidental contact.

Gaby has had more than enough of that already. He is about to draw away when the mechanic presses her palm to his chest, flat and warm and heavy. Her fingers curl into the fabric and she pulls him closer, lets her head fall against his chest.

An invitation rather than an imposition.

Illya strokes her hair, revels in the softness of her locks, before he tips her face up again. He shows her the washcloth. Gaby nods her assent, humming softly when he sweeps it over the split skin at her temple. His hand hovers anxiously over the spot.

“Too hot?”

She shakes her head. Her eyes close as he continues his ministrations. Illya is gentle, but thorough. When the dried blood has been cleared away and watercolor roses are blooming on the white towel instead, he can finally get a proper look at the cut. A superficial wound, not likely to scar. No need for stitches.

Illya sends up a prayer of thanks for that. He catches a drop of blood with his thumb before it can course down her cheek. He reaches to grab a cheery, yellow tube of ointment from the first aid kit. He unscrews the red cap, coaxes a thin line of it onto his finger before dabbing it over the affected area.

Gaby doesn’t cry out or flinch, but he sees the tension gather in her shoulders. He whispers soothingly to her in Russian as he readies the band-aid, smooths it over the wound.

And then, as the finishing touch, he stoops to press his lips to it, cool and soft. Just like he had been wanting to. Gaby’s quiet gasp ghosts over his ear as he drops his head to nose at her pulse point, breathing in the scent of her.

“You are _always_ priority.” He murmurs the words into her skin, gratified when she shivers for it. “When this is all over, when we are back in London, I am going to take you—”

His earpiece crackles back to life, stilling him, and he could laugh, he could _weep_ for this latest cosmic roadblock. _“Hope I’m not interrupting anything, Peril.”_

Illya groans. He rests his forehead on Gaby’s shoulder a moment before he straightens. Her sigh ruffles through his hair, a soft whimper of protest leaving her lips. He wants to kiss it from her. Illya gives her a tiny, rueful smile instead. A silent promise that he will make it up to her later.

“What is it, Cowboy?”

There’s a brief pause before the American replies. _“I bumped into an old friend of yours. Thought a reunion should be in order.”_

“I thought we’re supposed to kill her on sight,” the mechanic mutters.

Illya shrugs. “Maybe we still have questions for her. Or maybe he thinks _you_ would like to do the honors.”

He exchanges a look with Gaby before he’s gentling her to her feet. With a nod and one last, longing glance, they hurry to rejoin their partner.

 

* * *

 

To her credit, Yulia has gone quietly.

Solo isn’t sure whether it is a matter of discretion—they _are_ on a moving train, after all—or if the KGB agent is hoping to lull him into a false sense of security. It certainly isn’t a form of surrender.

Not by any stretch of the imagination. Solo would like to think it was his charm and gentlemanly manner that has convinced her to accompany him… but he supposes it had been his gun that had won her over in the end. The muzzle of his Browning HP guides her down the corridor as steadily as his palm would have, pressed lightly, but firmly at the base of her spine.

He escorts Yulia to Peril’s compartment, seeing as his own is currently occupied. He could do without the reminder.

Anika’s presence burns like acid in the back of his throat. Solo chokes down a decade’s worth of corrosive anger, blistering and biting and caustic. The shock of seeing her again is still fresh, but he’s no longer numb to it. He wonders if it is a blessing or a curse that Fate should bring her back to him like this.

Still, he supposes he should be grateful.

There’s no feeling in the world quite like poetic justice.

Solo will save the reminiscing and the ruminating for later. Maybe he’ll even have a scotch in her honor. One last drink to her memory, to his misery, to their diverging paths. They were lovers in a different life, though _love_ is hardly a word he would use to describe it.

It was raw attraction and a mutual understanding. The complement of light and shadow in checkerboarded pasts. Their demons, it turned out, were old friends. He and Ani were never good, but they were good for each other.

Until he was no longer good _enough._

Solo breathes through it, visualizes those memories being filed away. Locked away in a cold, unfeeling vault, hidden from the world. Untouched and untouchable. And waiting. Waiting until _he_ decides when and how to deal with them again.

His partners round the corner as he and Yulia reach the compartment. Solo frowns at Gaby’s sling, her bandaged temple, and his fingers dig deeper into the other agent’s arm. “After you,” he says tightly.

Peril raises a hand to stop them. _“Don’t—”_

It’s too late.

Yulia steps into the compartment and immediately stops short. A man’s voice—a _strange_ man’s voice—growls out from the shadows. “About time you showed up.”

Illya glides past a stunned Solo. “Excuse us,” he mutters to the man, reaching to pull the woman back out, relocate her to another room. The man sits up in his berth, quicker than Solo would give him credit for.

“I see you brought me my blonde, Peril. That’s a start.”

Solo arches an eyebrow at the nickname, at the details of this... arrangement. The gears in his mind are working overtime as he tries to catch up. “I wasn’t aware you had a _partner_ in this.”

“He’s not my partner,” Illya grouses. “He is my… roommate.”

Before he can comment on that, the mechanic is jostling past him to claim her space. She keeps her tone polite, but there’s a dangerous edge to it all the same. “I can see that, but what is he doing _here?”_

“You must be Gaby,” he responds. He looks her over quickly. “I thought your man here told you _not_ to engage.”

Her indignant sputtering is cut off with a wave of his hand. The man turns to face Illya with a glare. “I hope going after her was _worth it_ to nearly losing those files.”

Solo blinks, almost losing his grip on Yulia. Is the Red Peril being… _scolded?_ It takes him a long moment to process this fact. To recover enough to even speak. “How do you know about the files?”

The man jerks his chin towards the table where an empty glass has been overturned. Solo is almost tempted to grin at the audacity of it. “You listened through the wall.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And, uh, where are they now?”

The man sizes him up a moment before pushing to his feet. He kneels at his bedside, lifts up the bunk to reveal the metal storage container underneath. He waves the folders at Solo in a bored sort of way. “They won’t do you any good.”

Gaby huffs. “You’ve read them.”

The smirk that he gives her is smug enough to rival even Solo’s. “Only what was classified.”

Irritation (and more than a little embarrassment) settles over Peril’s features. He seems to finally have emerged from his stupor. “You’re saying that these are… that they’re useless?”

“I _said_ they won’t do you any good. In the wrong hands, though? Different story.” He smacks his hand against the documents for emphasis. “Lot of dangerous stuff in here. Intel’s just accurate enough to be credible, but it’s been twisted. You’re looking at major casualties.”

Solo has been shaking his head all throughout the man’s speech. He keeps a firm grip on Yulia who hasn’t once tried to struggle or weigh in on these proceedings. It unsettles him almost as much as the stranger before him. “I’m sorry,” he says. _“But who the hell are you?”_

The man smiles thinly at him. “A friend of your enemy.”

Before Solo can even blink, a Makarov PM is being leveled at his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, the OTW (the folks behind AO3) have released [a brief article](http://www.transformativeworks.org/eu-copyright-developments-and-fans/) breaking down the whole (VERY time sensitive) Article 11 and Article 13 debate currently going on. If you want to preserve fan culture as it currently exists (and to sift through the noise and panic about the #censorshipmachine and the supposed end of the internet), please read and signal boost... and/or for those who live in the EU, please contact your MEP! Thanks, loves! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final installment of this mission fic, just in time for our Illya's birthday! Thank you all so much for your patience and for joining me on this journey. A huge thank you to my dear friends, Somedeepmystery, Festiveviolet31, and SydneyMo for all of their love and insight throughout the writing process, and and to MilkshakeKate, our TMFU goddess, for the incredible prompt, and, in a larger sense, for inspiring me to live out my 'very modest, very attainable dream' of writing fic and sharing it with others. <3
> 
> I still remember the first time I read ["An Invitation"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319684) and being so awed and inspired by it and thinking... A) I NEED MORE and B) I want to do this. I want to be like her. I kept that story, in particular, open while I was writing my first fic and working up the courage to put myself out there (and still get chills every time I read it). I'm still holding out for that sequel (lovingly titled by me as "An RSVP", lol), but I just can't speak highly enough of Kate as a writer and as a person, and her gentle mentoring over the past 11 months.
> 
> The 24th of next month marks my one year AO3-iversary!!! It's gone by so fast. I am so grateful to the fandom for all you have given me. Truly, you have changed my life. I do hope to have the first chapter of my poor All Roads Lead to Rome sequel posted by then (I know, I know, some of you have been waiting for it since October), so please bear with me. I rarely go more than two weeks without some kind of update, but in light of recent and upcoming Real Life stuff and for the sake of my mental health and well-being, I probably will be dialing back a bit, as much as it pains me to say it. I'll still be writing and editing and commenting of course, but I wanted to let you all know and to thank you in advance for your support and understanding.
> 
> On to the finale! <3

 

Gaby trusts her partners to handle the gunman, to keep a close eye on any move he might make. She has her sights trained on Yulia instead. Solo still has a grip on her forearm, but it somehow seems… unnecessary.

The woman doesn’t react to the gun being drawn or make any move to free herself. There is no hint of recognition or even _acknowledgement_ of Illya’s presence, nor of the man who appears to be on her side.

There is something distinctly unsettling about her stillness. It’s anticipatory rather than passive. Yulia simply waits and simply watches, and so, Gaby does too.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Illya reaching for his own pistol. She’s not the only one. “Heroics, _really,_ Kuryakin?” The mystery man scoffs. “Put the gun down and stop being so dramatic. We’re running out of time.”

He catches their slight flinching at the use of Illya’s surname and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know who you three are. You’re from UNCLE. We’re from KGB.” He gives an exaggerated, mocking half-bow. “Alexi Bashkin. You’ve already met Yulia. Why don’t we have a talk?”

“You are the one pointing gun at us,” Illya grouses.

“And your man has a—Browning, is it?—to my partner’s back. So, we’ll call it even.” The Russian leans back against the table, feels around for a notepad. He extends it to Illya. “Your handler sent you a message. Took me a while to crack the code, but I think I got the gist of it.”

Gaby cranes her neck to read it over Illya’s shoulder.

MI SS IO NB RI EF DE LI VE RE DX SU SP EC TF OU LP LA YX DI SR EG AR DO RI GI NA LO RD ER SX DO NO TR PT NO TE NG AG EX ST AN DB YX XX

Illya hums as he examines the cipher, eventually nods at his partners. “Waverly,” he confirms, and Gaby can’t tell if it’s relief or dread that floods through her then. _What did it all mean?_

He meets Solo’s expectant gaze and sighs. “We are to wait for new orders. Our mission—”

“May not even be your mission after all,” Alexi finishes for him. _“Now,_ will you listen to me?”

“All right,” the American says. He slowly raises his gun and releases Yulia. “You have our attention.”

To Gaby’s surprise, it is the woman who speaks. A much gentler voice than she was expecting. Low and sweet and lightly-accented. “Thank you, Mr. Solo,” she says before turning to face her and Illya. “I suppose you want to know about THRUSH.”

 

* * *

 

It is like being doused in ice water.

Illya jerks, more for the messenger than for the message. There has always been a dreamlike quality to the way Yulia speaks: a smooth, singsong cadence, but tonight, there is something chilling in her voice. Chilling and ethereal.

 _Like a vila._ Tragic and beautiful, with a siren’s voice and the sea’s temperament: ever-changeable with a wrath to belie her calm exterior. It is almost easy to believe that the woman before him is part fey. That he is speaking with a ghost.

He hasn’t fully recovered from the shock of seeing her alive. As much as death dogged his footsteps in this profession, as futile as attachments seemed to be, he had still mourned her when news came to him… weeks after the fact through unofficial channels. Mourned her and then moved on because that was the job.

And now, she is back. The heart of a conspiracy, the eye of the storm. The missing piece of the puzzle. Perhaps, the puzzle itself.  “THRUSH,” he repeats. “Your employers.”

Yulia shakes her head gently. She doesn’t bristle at his remark or get defensive—not that he would have expected it from her. There is no fire in the gaze that meets his so steadily, no trace of ice in her words. “My loyalty has always been to our organization.”

 _Our organization._ The words are so hollow that they seem to echo inside of him. Illya isn’t sure if the woman before him is lying… or if he is.

He crosses his arms as if that could defend him somehow against the dangerous, traitorous thoughts. The questions of his allegiancy his _last_ visit to Russia had raised. “Faking your death,” he scoffs. “That is loyalty?”

“Yes.” Perfectly level.  Not a crack in the facade.

 _Is that all she has to say?_ He stares at her agog, waiting for her to explain herself. It is Alexi, her partner, who speaks instead. “The KGB is compromised.”

“Compromised how?” Illya’s fingers are tapping, and he doesn’t try to stop them. Yulia notes the tell without reacting to it. He almost wishes she would.

A sigh escapes her lips instead. “I was to pose as double agent. Build trust with THRUSH by feeding them information. But the intel… the intel was not good. Tampered with, much like the files Alexi recovered. It put many people in danger.”

“You know how it is, comrade,” the man in question adds. “Sacrifice a few pawns to keep your queen in play.”

Solo hums shortly at that, takes a step forward before Illya can interject. “Only… I’m guessing the losses were much more substantial.”

“To stay in the game, Mr. Solo,” Yulia says, “we had to change the rules.”

“So, the KGB writes you off. One, maybe two people at most knew the truth?” Cowboy waits for her nod before continuing. “And that leaves you where? Still aligned with THRUSH, but without anyone on the other side of your leash?”

A shadow of a smile flickers across her face. Tired. A little sad even. “I could not continue working for both sides if my agency no longer recognized my existence.”

Illya has to give a grudging grunt of approval at that. _That_ is much more in line with the woman he used to work with. “KGB agents handled the drop,” he says gruffly. “They had your picture. Knew your secret.”

“And they ordered you to kill me. The same way _I_ was ordered to come here.”

“By THRUSH?”

“By the KGB.” Yulia’s shoulders rise and fall with measured grace at this revelation. “Compromised, as I said.”

Solo frowns. He shakes his head as if to clear it. “If your agency believes you dead, then—”

“My handler contacted me. About a week ago.” A split-second hesitation. “At least… I assumed it was him.”

“But you can’t be sure.”

“No.”

Illya waits.

So does Yulia.

At last, she relents. “I was told they had identified a potential leak. KGB needed me to investigate it. To stop it, if I could.” She averts her gaze. “It corroborated reports coming into THRUSH, so I went.”

“Tell me about Zophie.” _Gaby._ Glass vial in hand. The first time that she has addressed the Russian woman.

If Yulia registers the veiled threat behind those words, she doesn’t show it. She holds the mechanic’s gaze, nods. “She was drugged by the time I found her. I had guessed there must be an impostor, so I—”

_“You attacked Gaby.”_

Illya’s sudden interjection seems to suck all the air from the room. He advances on his former partner, but she holds her ground—not in the defiant way that Gaby would have done, but with an expectant, quiet… confidence. Completely at odds with the other agents. Solo and Alexi edge towards him, circling almost, ready to intervene at any second, but not the German woman. She studies him, studies Yulia with a closely-guarded expression. Waiting to see how this plays out.

“That was not me.” There is a sadness and a steadiness in the way she regards him. Not the slightest trace of fear, even as his anger palpably rises. He towers over her, jabbing his finger at the ground.

“Only KGB agent can execute the Kiss—”

“Then _that_ is who we are looking for,” Yulia says. Calmly. Simply. As if it is the most obvious answer in the world. She turns to Gaby, her tone as solemn, as serene as it always is. “I am truly sorry that you were hurt.”

Even Illya has to admit she sounds sincere. He doesn’t back down though. He _won’t_ until he gets the sign from Gaby. But before he can even check to see where the mechanic stands, his mind catches on something and starts spinning out. It’s a hurricane, startling in its ferocity. Fragments and fragments and fragments.

_“She was blonde—”_

_“—send her my way, won’t you?”_

_Fake files. A decoy. Blue computer disk. The red mist._

_“Russian. My height.”_

_Bloody door. Chipped porcelain. A crushed earpiece._

_“Only a KGB agent can execute the Kiss—”_

_Gaby frozen. Injured._

_Her weight on him as she slept._

_A snatch of perfume._

_The color red._

_“No one from behind the Curtain wears Tosca.”_

_“She was blonde.”_

_“Only a KGB agent—”_

_Perfume. And steam. And scarlet._

“That _is who we are looking for.”_

The realization thunders through him, and he staggers with it, lost until he hears Gaby’s voice, feels the warmth of her hand in his. He isn’t sure, but he thinks she says his name.

“Illya,” she calls. It might be the second time. It might be the hundredth. “What is it?”

“We need to—” he shakes his head, trying to focus. Instinctively, his eyes snap to Gaby’s. It is her and _only_ her that holds his attention. “We need to find the provodnitsa.”

Footsteps sound outside their compartment door. A figure running down the hall. As if someone had been listening.

Before any of them can react, all the lights go out.

 

* * *

 

A flurry of movement follows: shadows dancing and colliding, the blind, disoriented fumbling, muscle memory and training kicking in. Gaby grunts with pain—someone must have knocked into her— and then the curtains are being shoved to the side.

There is just enough moonlight to see by. Illya joins Alexi in rifling through their suitcases until both men have procured a flashlight each. Solo gestures at the door. “I’ve got another one in my room. I’ll go get it.”

He hesitates, seemingly assessing his options. Who to take with him and who to leave behind? Gaby’s injuries leave her especially vulnerable. She can’t provide Cowboy with the backup he might need, but Illya’s not about to leave her alone with the other agents either. Nor is he willing to split them across agency lines.

Yulia and Alexi exchange a look: an unspoken agreement. He hands her the flashlight, and she takes it, moving to stand beside the American. There is a trace of irony to the smile she gives him. “I understand if you do not trust us, but you should not go out there alone.”

Solo makes a slight bow to her. “After you.”

The door closes, leaving Illya and Gaby with Alexi. A comparable team, a more level playing field should things go south between them. He instinctively positions himself between the two, shielding his partner from threats both in and out of the compartment.

The corners of Alexi’s mouth lift slightly. He hums, as if in approval of this tactic. Before the man can comment further, Solo’s voice cuts him off.

A loud, uncharacteristic curse chased by footsteps. At least three sets, he thinks. Maybe a fourth. Even muffled by distance and the sounds of a struggle, Illya can recognize the distinct _chute-chute_ of suppressed gunfire anywhere. First, one shot, then another. Something heavy is overturned with a resounding clang—the samovar, if he had to guess.

Agonizing shrieks follow. _Definitely the samovar._ The voice is female, strident with pain. It is horrifying to listen to. It cuts out oddly, punctuated by a dulled thud as her body drops.

When the silence falls once more, Illya almost wishes for the screaming.

The whole encounter is  over in ten, fifteen seconds. Barely enough time to make sense of it. Gaby is lunging for the door when Illya drags her back, hand firming on the bicep of her good arm. _“No,”_ he growls. “You stay here. Protect the files.”

“Like you did?” she snaps. “I’m not—”

“You _will._ Are you armed?” He knows she has her Walther on her, but can she shoot it left-handed? She won’t have even the benefit of her right hand to support and steady her. Illya grits his teeth, shaking his head at the question, at the situation that necessitates it. He draws the long knife from his boot. “Take this.”

His calloused fingers curl over hers, and he bends until their foreheads are touching and their breaths are mingling. He doesn’t care that Alexi is watching. He _needs_ this moment. “Be safe,” he murmurs.

And then he is gone, shadowing the other man down the corridor, guided only by instinct and the watery, solitary beam of the flashlight. Compartment doors are being opened all around them and Illya barks out orders to _stay inside._

“You should have kissed her,” Alexi calls over his shoulder.

 _“What?”_ He nearly loses his footing. His boot slips in the sudden, sodden plush of the carpet—the scene of the crime. The water from the samovar is still hot beneath his heels as he regains his balance, glaring murderously at Alexi as he does so. The liquid sloshes around his ankles with every step, and Illya could almost imagine the steam rising in curling tendrils. _Little ghosts for a haunted train._

They’re not the ones he needs to worry about.

As if on cue, Illya catches sight of Yulia gliding gracefully from Gaby’s compartment. A second, spectral figure materializes behind her. _Cowboy._

“The provodnitsa?” he asks when they join him.  

The American shakes his head, scoffs quietly under his breath. “Anika. She made a run for it.”

“She will have burns from the water,” Yulia adds, “But she will live.” A beat, then, “There was another unconscious body in that compartment. A man. Did you know that?”

Illya shifts his gaze away, sheepish. _“Da,”_ he mutters.

“He will be surprised when he wakes up,” she says simply, already turning her mind to other matters.

A shocked laugh escapes him before he realizes it. Did _anything_ faze her? It is a quality he hadn’t realized he’d missed about his former partner. Yulia blinks up at him, expectant, but he shakes his head.

He turns at the sound of Alexi’s voice. The KGB agent stoops to retrieve something from the floor. A provodnitsa’s cap. He traces around the brim. “Dry.”

“Which _means,”_ Cowboy says, “our mole can’t have gotten far.”

Yulia nods. “Mr. Solo and I will check the toilets and washroom.”

“And _Peril_ and I will head back.” Alexi’s smirk is met with three, flat looks that do no little to dampen his enthusiasm. “She might have gone to a different car, hid in a compartment—”

“But she will be looking for those files,” Illya finishes.

Worry gnaws, then tears into him, shredding his composure with vicious intensity. Cowboy must read it in him because he motions for them to leave. “We’ll reconvene later.”

They go their separate ways: Alexi and Illya stalking swiftly and silently back down the hallway. His heart is slamming against his chest when they arrive at their compartment. The door is ajar. Not a sound to be heard within.

The men exchange a look, a quick nod, and then move into position. Illya begins to ease the door open, while Alexi covers him, gun at the ready.

 _“Don’t move,”_ Gaby hisses.

Relief sweeps through him. Illya lifts his hands, placating, though he knows she can’t see him. “It is only us.”

“I _said,”_ she snaps, “don’t move.”

Alexi swears then as he looks inside, a colorful stream of curses that has Illya’s eyebrows inching up his forehead. He is tempted to ask the man which hospital he’d learned those words in when he catches himself. Illya would rather _not_ have Gaby ask too many questions about it… and the KGB agent seems the type to tattle.

The man hauls him by the sleeve and almost shoves Illya’s nose into the gap between the door and the wall: a three-inch glimpse of the room within. He has to back up to take the scene in properly. When Alexi’s flashlight arcs into the shadows, he suddenly understands why the mechanic had been so adamant.

The provodnitsa is standing just inside the entryway, blonde hair spilling messily over her scarlet coat. Her head is bowed, arms limp at her sides. _Unconscious._ The yellow light gleams off the handle of her discarded gun, the curve of Illya’s knife close beside it.

 _“That_ is the Kiss you give your German woman?” Alexi shakes his head, incredulous. _“Only a KGB agent could do this,”_ he mutters—a devastating impression of Illya. He doesn’t miss the muffled snort from within the compartment.

Illya rolls his eyes. “Very funny,” he huffs. “Gaby, are you hurt?”

“No. I wasn’t letting her get the drop on me twice.”

Pride swells through his chest at that. “Good.”

The overhead lights flicker back on, and Solo and Yulia arrive soon after. The American looks at them curiously. “Are you two… waiting for something?”

In response, Illya motions for him to get a look. “Ah,” is all he says. “And Gaby?”

“Gloating,” she answers sweetly.

Solo turns to him with a smirk. “And I thought you said only a KGB ag—”

 _“I know,”_ he growls, but the corners of his lips are twitching upwards. The annoyance in his voice is barely convincing to his own ears.

All around them, doors begin to open and service bells go off. Passengers blink groggily at their little assembly, and Illya sighs, remembering what Gaby had told him earlier. With both attendants down now, _someone_ would have to see to their needs, soothe all their anxieties and explain away the chaos of the last, few minutes.

Yulia lays her hand on his arm, shows him the provodnitsa’s cap before placing it on her head. “Alexi and I will handle it.” Illya grins at her partner’s protest, cut off by a quick look from the blonde woman. “The uniform will fit you better,” she tells him.

“All the more reason to have _him_ wear it,” the man sulks.

“I’ll keep watch over Anika,” Solo announces when the KGB agents set off. “She’ll need medical attention, and I want to make _sure_ we hand her over to Waverly. You two have our double agent covered?”

Illya nods, waits for the American’s footsteps to recede. He leans against the wall, lets his eyes drift closed. “Gaby?”

“Yes?”

“When did Cowboy teach you to do the Kiss?”

A soft chuckle greets him. “Is that the question you really want to ask me?”

“No.” He doesn’t even try to hide his smile, the quiet laugh bubbling inside his chest. “No, it is not.”

 

* * *

 

Almost an hour later, the five agents have gathered in the empty dining car. It is too early for the breakfast service, but that hasn’t stopped them from rounding up enough coffee and bread rolls to go around.

Their two charges have been given a powerful sedative and then restrained once more. Upon arrival in St. Petersburg, the two women will be taken into joint-custody by their respective organizations.

“You know,” Cowboy is saying to Yulia, “I’m sure there’s a place for you at UNCLE, if you’d be interested.”

“You _are_ dead as far as KGB is concerned,” Illya adds. “And after taking down a double agent, you should have all the leverage you need.”

Alexi leans back in his seat. “Wish we had more though. Some evidence, maybe, of your fake mission.” He shrugs. “There’s no paper trail. Yulia destroyed her orders. I assume you did too.”

It pains Illya deeply to nod at that, but then he hears the mechanic cough. Her lips curve into a secretive smile when he looks at her, and his eyes widen at the implication. “Gaby?”

“I may have held onto the files,” she says. “It’s not much, but it should help you make your case.”

The three Russians gape at her. Illya, in particular, is torn between rebuking her for violating protocol and making good on all those heated, blissful promises. He breathes deeply through his nose to get a handle on those warring emotions—not helped in the _least_ when Gaby winks at him.

Alexi begins laughing uproariously and plants a messy kiss on both her cheeks, startling them all. “This calls for a drink,” he announces. “A _real_ drink.” Yulia pulls out a flask, and Illya notes the slightest hesitation on the man’s face when he sees it. He also notes the sly smile she gives him in return.

“A.B.,” Gaby muses, as the woman pours vodka into each of their cups. _Russian coffee,_ as Solo and Waverly would call it. She stares intently at Alexi, an unexpected seriousness in her eyes. “You could go with her. Our superior, he… _we_ would hate to break up a set.”

She looks away quickly, a light flush creeping up her cheeks. Solo nods solemnly beside her. “We’ll put a good word in for the both of you. Explain the situation. I’d say this puts us _all—”_ he glances surreptitiously at Illya, “—in a favorable position.”

Gaby squeezes his hand under the table, sensing the distress that radiates from him. He’d almost forgotten what he had overheard in London regarding his future with his team. He has _not_ forgotten his last ‘assignment’ from the KGB.

And this mission… this _fake_ mission, what of it? He supposes Waverly will have the answers, but for now, he will take comfort in the slim fingers laced in his own.

“A toast,” Alexi shouts. “To new beginnings, then?”

“To new beginnings,” they chorus. Gaby downs her cup in one, and Alexi appraises her curiously. He looks ready to say something, to challenge her to a drinking contest perhaps, when Illya cuts him off.

“She will win,” he assures him firmly, catching the mechanic’s eye for a fraction of a second. A private smile flits over his face. “Either way, you will end up under the table.”

“Next time we are in London,” Alexi responds, and Gaby inclines her head, smirks as she accepts the challenge. He and Yulia rise to their feet.

Solo sets his cup down gingerly, holds up a hand to stop them. “What I still don’t understand, though, is how did _you_ get involved in all of this?”

Alexi grins at him. “Comrade, I just bought a train ticket.”

Illya can only chuckle softly at that. He shakes hands with the man before turning to his former partner. He doesn’t know what to say, but with Yulia, he rarely has to.

“They are good for you,” she tells him. “You look…”

“Happy?”

“At peace.” She nods, confirming some theory of hers as she looks at him. “I am glad that our paths could cross again.”

He is surprised when she pulls him down into a hug, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Take good care of her. And let her take good care of _you.”_ Before Illya can respond, she is moving to say her goodbyes to the other agents.

Solo offers to walk them out under the guise of contacting their handler. He tosses a wink at Gaby before sauntering out.

And then there were two.

“What do you think was on the computer disk?” she asks when the dining car becomes preternaturally quiet.

“The what?” It takes a moment for his brain to catch up. He frowns, remembering how they had found it among the woman's belongings. How it _should_ have tipped him off that something was wrong. “Probably nothing. It was meant to incriminate Yulia. Would most likely be a dead end when we finally checked it.”

“And this… Ani? She was working with the mole?”

Illya hums. “They would have had no way of knowing Solo would recognize her. We would have protected her, allowed her to feed false intelligence to Soviet Union.”

Gaby nods, but her eyes are distant. Her voice is steel-edged. Hollow. “They were testing you, weren’t they?”

“I don’t—”

She slams her palms on the table, making him jump. “Think about what would have happened, Illya, if UNCLE, if _you_ were to kill a KGB agent unprovoked. Because _that’s_ how it would have looked.”

The mechanic is right. She always is. This hadn’t been their mission. And Yulia’s death would have caused an international uproar. The relations between agencies might never be able to recover.

_And where would that leave him?_

“They could have taken you from us,” she snaps. There’s an uncharacteristic tremor in her speech, in the hand that grips his own almost painfully tight. The pleading look she gives him causes his heart to seize in his chest.

“It was close call,” he agrees weakly.

Gaby nods, curt, and then the emptiness seems to creep back in. She releases him, hunches over her empty cup instead. “So, now our _real_ mission begins.”

_“Da.”_

There is nothing more to be said about it. Another nod from Gaby, and then she is on her feet, ready to slip past him.

“Wait.” His hand curves around her waist, pulling her close to him. _“Please,”_ he murmurs into her shoulder. He can only hope she understands.

“After this,” she declares, “I’m going somewhere warm. And _you’re_ coming with me.”

Illya’s eyes lock onto hers, searching for the game, for the trap she has set for him. But all he sees is sincerity. “Where would we go?” he says slowly, dipping his toes into this _verboten_ fantasy—a sailboat on the Aegean, a vineyard in Tuscany, a beach in Rijeka. He almost kicks himself. None of those locations were exactly temperate in winter.

“I was thinking Australia.”

He smiles at that, remembering their conversation from earlier. The full debriefing she’d agreed to give him. His ears redden slightly, burning with the echo of that innuendo. He blames Solo. “It _is_ summer there.”

 _Summer._ Illya allows himself to indulge in the scene. Everything golden and languid and comfortable. No missions. No covers. Just him and his chop shop girl in the sunshine. “I would like that,” he confesses.

“Good.” Gaby hums, her nails scratching gently through his hair. “And I wouldn’t say no to getting coffee with you either.”

“You wouldn’t?”

She laughs, considers him a moment. She traces the scar by his eye, and if _that_ little dream come true weren’t distracting enough, she settles herself on his lap. Gaby drapes her good arm around his shoulders, her face centimeters from his own.

“Of course,” she coos, smiling against his lips. “All you have to do is ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE THANKS to Somedeepmystery for allowing me to use her OC, Alexi Bashkin, in another one of my fics. I love him so. :D
> 
> I based my cipher on the same one-time pad system that Kate used in her exquisite Standby fic. The Xs are stops and the double XXs at the end signify the end of the message which reads as follows: Mission brief delivered. Suspect foul play. Disregard original orders. Do not repeat not engage. Standby.
> 
> Thank you again for reading! I will be back with more content when I can. :)
> 
> **In a gift economy like AO3, I am sharing this work freely for the enjoyment of the fandom. Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, but not expected. If you are inspired to acknowledge or engage further with this story and its creator, I thank you. If you are here to simply sit around my campfire and share your time and interest in my writing, I thank you as well.**


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